


Superheroes

by AwwwCoffee_No



Series: Superheroes [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint has a boner for coffee, Deaf Clint Barton, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Gen, High School, Natasha Needs a Hug, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, POV Multiple, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-29 00:29:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6351709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwwwCoffee_No/pseuds/AwwwCoffee_No
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When you've been fighting for it all your life<br/>You've been working every day and night<br/>That's how a superhero learns to fly"</p><p>When Natalia Romanov first arrives in America she is bitter as the Russian cold she left. Regarding the subject of Clint Barton the busy body orphan, she hates him. But it's a long road for her to learn that everyone needs a hero sometimes, and just what price people must pay to be such heroes...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE PART 1- All her life she has seen...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys, this is my first Fanfic on this site. It is going to be mostly focused on Clint and Natasha with appearences from all your favourite MARVEL characters. Throughout the course of this hopefully three-part series you'll be reading from the POV's of Clint, Natasha and Steve. I hope you enjoy but if you want to see any chapters or scenes from the mind of another character, please let me know.

It was a cold day in 7th grade when she first met him, sitting under a tree on the raised border of the bark chip filled pit it grew from. It served as a comfortable bench and the wide oak tree provided nice shelter from the bitter wind. Not that it was even cold to her, Natalia Romanova was from Russia, the _land_ of the cold. It wasn’t snowing here yet though but she from her understanding it would be less than a week the first white flakes would appear.

This was her second day in an American school and she’d successfully ditched her guide at the start of the lunch break, or at least the student who pretended to be a guide. This was a cocky girl who talked slowly to her just because she was Russian like she couldn't understand English, which was sometimes the case she'd admit but this **дурак(fool)** wasn’t helping when she talked to Natalia like a baby. She was in the middle of eating her sandwich when she heard them. She only recognised one of them, a girl called Barbara or Bobbi (she couldn’t remember which although she was sure both names had been said at some point) who was her assigned guide for the first week. Natalia noticed the girl wore a skirt that finished above her knees even though it was almost winter (not even Natalia was that senseless) and a blouse that looked way too expensive to be worn at school.

Trailing behind her was an even number of boys and girls in a group of about a dozen. The boys were big and muscular whilst the girls wore makeup and skirts. Natalia gave an internal groan as the head girl, Bobbi, called out, “Oh there you are Nat! I’ve been looking all over for you. You shouldn’t disappear like that.” The girl giggled like she was scolding a naughty child.

Natalia glared at her but didn’t say anything. She just kept chewing her food, back straight and against the tree’s trunk.  She didn’t understand why this American girl insisted on calling her ‘Nat’ when her name was Natalia. It was rude. Breaking the awkward silence first, Bobbi continued; “What are you doing all the way out her anyway? This is almost on the outside of school.” It was, to be fair, in the far most corner of the school yard from the cafeteria, a mesh fence past the tree separating them from the main road. But that was also why Natalia had picked it.

She looked at Bobbi like it was obvious, sandwich halfway to her mouth. “To eat lunch.”

“Well, why don’t you... eat with us? I can intro-duce you to my friends.” She slowed the words down as if anything more than two syllables would confuse the foreign girl.

“I rather eat alone.” Natalia explained.

Bobbi seemed to frown at this, thinking of a reason to argue. Instead one of the larger boys from the back of the group stepped forward. He towered over the rest of them and his black hair hung back in a mullet down his neck. His arms were large and he was stout, but hadn’t yet received the musculature that filled out through adulthood. She thought he might be a couple years above her. And she didn't miss the appreciative glance up and down her body.

But when he spoke she realised it might not be the case. “Ha, you’re voice sounds funny. Where are you from?”

Natalia bristled; she didn’t like talking to strangers. Slowly she made herself relax, reasoning that everyone would find out sooner or later. “Russia.”

“A commie huh? My name is Buck. I like your hair.” He said and then before she could respond he reached out and yanked on her red pigtail.

“Отпусти меня,” she blurted out in Russian as her hair pulled painfully at her skull, “ты свинья.“  When he started laughing she repeated herself in English, “Let go of me, you pig!”

He seemed to grow angry at the insult (apparently swine was just as big of an insult here as in Russia), his face turning red and his mouth opening to say something. Instead what came out was a yelp. He released her hair and his hand flew to his nose. And then despite the fact he had been watching her, he convinced himself she was responsible for the sudden pain and raised a meaty fist. “Why you little bi-.” He was cut off as he was hit again, this time in the chest.

Natalia’s mouth hung agape as it seemed he was being beaten by an invisible foe, being pushed back. It wasn’t until seconds later that she saw missiles (Acorns?) drop away from wherever he was hit. Suddenly it made sense, someone was shooting at the big dark-haired boy. The onslaught of acorns continued and even fired down at the rest of Bobbi’s group until the whole lot of them turned tail and, with a lot of screams, fled. Natalia was left in the silence, trying to figure out what had just happened. She thought back to where the nuts had hit and tried to locate the person who had assaulted the group, her eyes following the different flight paths backwards in her mind until they all converged above her.

She stepped back suddenly from the tree, food forgotten in her hand when a strange noise erupted from a branch almost three metres above her. It wasn’t until a face poked out from behind the thick branch that she realised it was laughter. A high-pitched boyish laughter, she thought.

Her suspicion was confirmed when a second later the culprit jumped down, bending his knees as he landed lightly. A broad grin was on his face as he bowed theatrically at her still gaping expression. His blonde hair gave him a shaggy appearance, grown it out so that it came down to his neck on the sides and reached in front of his eyes at the front. Like a mop of golden hair, she thought. He was also short, shorter than her, and skinny. Although she couldn’t really tell the latter for sure because he wore a grey coat several sizes too big for him, which came down past his knees. Beneath that he wore jeans and a purple t-shirt, which she thought odd because she knew it wasn’t a ‘boy’ colour in America.

His laughter was getting annoying when she finally snapped, “You laugh at me?”

He stopped for a second, straightening up to look at her. After a moment he cocked his head to the side like a dog before laughing one last time. “Sorry, I wasn’t laughing at you. It’s just... did you see that? It was hilarious. Buck screamed like a little girl- err I mean baby.”

Natalia paused. This American boy was talking too fast for her to understand. “Hilarious?” she asked sternly at the strange new word.  She expected him to laugh at her difficulty with the English language as well, or her strong accent.

Instead he blinked, cast a look at her and explained. “It means really funny. Which it was because he ran away like a wimp.”

Natalia looked at him for a second, her eyebrow raised. _Hil-air-ri-us, hilarious_ she considered, _means funny._ American boy talked fast but at least he wasn’t trying to dumb it down for her. Abruptly she wondered why he was up in the tree to begin with. She pointed a finger up at the branch, “You spying on me?”

He blew his hair out of his eyes. Then he did it again when it didn’t work the first time. Finally he scowled when it fell back down in his face before reaching up and pushing it up and away with his fingers. Only then did he look up where she was pointing. Of course as soon as he tipped his head back down to look at her, his fringe fell back in his face. He shook his head quickly. “I was here first. I overheard you guys and decided to have a little fun.”

She was taken back, she’d come out here to be alone but he’d been here first, apparently. It would explain how he’d got up the tree without her noticing. She scrunched up her nose as another question came to her. She didn’t know why she even bothered to continue talking that much but at least he wasn’t being patro-patron- uh, really nice to her about her English. “Why?”

“Sorry?”

“No, why you throw acorns at big boy... you call Buck?”

He made an ‘oh’ movement with his mouth as he looked at her. “I thought it would be fun. I don’t like Buck, he’s a bully, always picking on the littler kids at the orphanage. I just wanted to be helpful. No one stands up to him because he's so big, but I'm not a wuss.”

Natalia moved so she was in his face, poking him in the chest so that he took a step back. “So you think, because I am girl I need to be rescued? That I cannot take care of self? I do not need your help! сексистские свиньи.”

He looked at her for a second, shock on his face as she stared into his blue eyes; daring him to continue. Then he shrugged, smile on his face as he said, “I never said you did.”

Then he was walking away, not asking her to follow. “Better eat your sandwich, lunch is almost over.” He called over his shoulder not looking back, leaving Natalia to look after him as his oversized coat blew in the wind like a cape. Realising she hadn’t got his name. Sure enough Natalia had only just finished her food minutes later when the bell rang. She allowed herself a groan when she checked her schedule again. She had Maths next.

She didn’t see him until after school when she was sitting in her bus. She was staring intently at her English book to avoid attracting conversation, and waiting for her bus to leave, when a sound drew her attention. Looking up distractedly she saw the large boy from before (Duck or Buck, she tried to remember) knock aside a smaller kid holding a handful of books as he made his way onto the other bus. She vaguely remembered the bus went the opposite direction as hers, out of town and into the country. The kid was small and slight, with medium length brown hair and thick square glasses.

Before the smaller kid could force himself to his feet and retrieve the sprawled library books, someone else was there to help him. Natalia recognised him by the grey coat, it reminded her of what the dockworkers had worn when she came over to the United States. He held out his hand to the smaller teen and hauled him to his feet. Then the two of them gathered the books and hurried onto the bus after Buck.

The scene played out in Natalia’s head on the bus home. Trying to decide what to make of the peculiar American, she noted that he’d come to someone else’s aid twice in one day. And both times Buck had been the cause of the trouble, a boy much larger than the scrawny blonde. Natalia didn’t know whether it was brave or stupid, but she eventually decided it was not worth getting to know him to find out. If Buck worked out who fired the acorns, he’d want vengeance on the boy; it wasn’t smart to be associated with the larger boy's target.

Even as she decided that though, she found herself going over everything she'd seen him do.

* * *

“Clint.”

Natalia’s head snapped up. It was raining outside, almost snowing, so she’d been forced to sit in the cafeteria today. She’d successfully found an empty table and sat down to eat. Somewhere along the way she’d got caught off guard thinking.

The boy sat down heavily at the opposite side of the table. He was still wearing that oversized pea coat. It had been a week since that day under the tree, and she’d only caught glimpses of him around the school. He was the next year above her so they hadn’t had a chance to talk to each other. Not that she’d tried to.

“What?” she asked.

“My name is Clint. What’s yours?” he held out his hand. She glanced at it as if it was a serpent and didn’t reach for it. Instead she snapped.

“Leave me alone.”

“Well hello leave-me-alone, what an interesting name. It’s nice to meet you.” He said with a crooked smirk, his eyes daring her to react. He had very emotive eyes she realised.

“You are annoying.” She told him.

“Actually no, the name is Clint. Not going to repeat it again. But it’s alright; a lot of people make the same mistake.”

Her lip twitched, she almost smirked. She realised it was probably easier just to humour the придурок so she said, “Natalia.”

He broke out in a toothy grin, bobbing his head. “That’s a lot better name than leave-me-alone. Russian?”

She rolled her eyes, “ _Da_.”

“That’s cool.”

She narrowed her eyes. _That’s cool?_ _No remarks on being a Communist or Foreigner_. So far every American child had grown patriotic at the detail, or forgotten that the enmity between Russia and the USA was officially over. But he didn’t speak further. Curious, she asked, “Just _cool_?”

He blew his hair out of his eyes. Once, then twice before he gave up and pushed it up with a hand. Then he was ready to answer. “Well yeah. You must speak like two languages which is pretty wicked. I want to learn another language, it'll be heaps more useful than knowing what some dead guy said a bazillion years ago.”

That wasn’t exactly the part most classmates took from her origin story. And she was momentarily stuck on what to say. But she took a breath, decided what she wanted to say, translated it to English, and opened her mouth.

“Hey Red, what are you doing over here?” she looked up to see Buck, walking over from his table at the opposite side of the cafeteria. “I thought you wanted to eat alone, what are you doing with this fag.”

Clint’s jaw tightened, but before he could speak she protested. “I was eating alone.” Clint hadn’t eaten any food since he walked over and it’s not like she'd invited him, so she was telling the truth.

Buck narrowed his eyes, “Oh I see. How about you and me go somewhere and _eat alone_ sometime as well. Give us a chance to get to know each other.” He said with a suggestive wink, reaching out to stroke, or more likely tug, her pigtail. Natalia couldn’t help leaning away from the far too familiar motion even as her eyes glared on in defiance at him.

“Hey fucker, leave her alone. She doesn’t want to have anything to do with you.” Natalia was caught off guard by the sudden edge in Clint’s voice, which was so cheery only moments before.

Buck huffed, his arms returning to cross in front of him threateningly. “And what are you going to do about it freak?”

Clint once again adopted that crooked smirk, although the cold edge remained in his words. “I don’t know... you tell me, how's your nose feeling. Would hate for it to happen again, maybe with a rock next time... Might help your looks though.” Indeed there had been a purple bruise on Buck’s nose earlier this week. It had earned him the nickname ‘Rudolf the Purple Nosed Reindeer’, although never to his face. He’d been huffing about like a wounded bear though, trying to figure out who had dared assault him. Now his eyes widened in outrage as the implication clicked in.

“And the penny drops.” Clint said with a whimsical glee, although he stood up now from his seat. His fists were balled although he had to keep pulling his sleeves up to keep them clear.

“You! It was you, you scrawny little shit. I’m going to end you.”  Buck said as he took a step forward.

“Стоп!” Natalia shouted as she moved to get in between them, “Stop!”

Buck was just pulling back his fist to swing when a teacher's voice rang out, asking them “Is there anything wrong Mr Crisholm?” Suddenly Mr Brown, the English teacher, was next to them, giving them a pointed look. Slowly, the larger boy lowered his arm, muttering a “nothing sir” before brushing past Clint. Natalia vaguely heard him grumble something to Clint but couldn’t make it out. Now the teacher was turning to both of them, asking the same question. They both gave their most wide eyed innocent looks (although Clint couldn’t help but still look guilty with that smirk still plastered to his face) and mumbled “I’m fine”s.

As soon as the teacher was gone however, Natalia rounded on Clint. Once again she got in his face and poked him backwards into the table. “What in hell were you doing?”

He raised his hands in surrender, “Just making sure he doesn’t mess with y-.”

“No! No more, I do not need you to be big hero and save day. I am not American girl who can not take care of self.” She growled.

“I was just trying to help.”  He shrugged his shoulders underneath his big woollen coat.

She started to walk away before she huffed, “I do not need help, I am not baby. Do not try to help me again Clint, I forbid it.” With that she grabbed her things and left, leaving Clint the one to watch her walk away this time.

* * *

It became common enough knowledge throughout Stanhurst Middle School that Clint Barton, the one from the Rosemore Home for Kids had a death wish. Buck Crisholm, a fellow Rosemore resident, was going to kill him. At least that’s what he told everyone who would listen. But after a week nothing had happened, Clint still rocked up to all his classes and looked none the worse. In fact he smiled broadly whenever he and Buck were in the same room, goading him.

No one could understand it; everyone knew how unsafe you were in the orphanage. They had aides there, not security guards. So everyone was puzzling how on earth the scrawny little thirteen-year-old could survive so long.

Natalia was the only one who wasn’t interested. She really didn’t know the boy, even if she was curious, and he was a nuisance anyways. He was practically asking for trouble, trying to play the hero. Trying to safeguard her like she was some fragile doll that needed to be protected. Natalia’s independence flared at the thought. He wasn’t a hero, he was just another American cowboy not keeping his nose out of other people’s business. He was a brat, who should just leave her alone before she was harmed through association with him.

But she allowed herself an internal sigh. She shouldn’t complain. Because like it or not, at least the blonde haired boy was keeping Crisholm’s attention off her. She hadn’t seen Clint since that last day in the cafeteria, avoiding him (or maybe he was avoiding her), and as such hadn’t seen much of Buck either. _Perhaps he’s forgotten about me_ , Natalia thought with an uncharacteristic smile.

It would be a while, years even before she realised just how wrong she had been.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So guys, first chapter. Tell me what you think, would you like shorter or longer chapters or was the writing bugging you somehow. Bare in mind I'm not actually American, so if there's any inconsistencies regarding the school system or something, I blame the movies I've watched.


	2. PROLOGUE PART TWO- All the meanest side of me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natalia Romanova is sick of being treated like a child. Her English is a little off but she isn't stupid.  
> Worse still she's sick of being rescued like a damsel from the one kid not treating her like an idiot. If only it would just end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final part of the prologue, and I'll add a sneak peek at the actual story.

It had been two weeks since Clint had started evading Crisholm and Natalia was walking towards the front of the school. The bus would draw up at the end of the day there, and students would wait anywhere from five to fifteen minutes (depending which bus they were on) to board their bus. Natalia had worked out that the bus never left before nine minutes post end of school so she’d allowed herself to take the scenic route to the front, it was not like she had any friends to wait around with. 

So she threaded her way around the Tech shed, beelined for the alley between the Art building and the Drama room, with the intention to exit out onto the football field with a short walk in the open air to reach around the front of the main building.

As she pass the Art room into the alley she couldn’t turn around with her backpack because of how narrow the gap was. Up ahead it widened slightly to one side, at a rectangular cut out into the art room. It was a small alcove where all the smokers gathered during breaks but it was empty after school. To Natalia it required much needed breathing room; claustrophobia, she learned in the past week, kicked in heavily on the stretch up to it. But if she forced herself to soldier through it, then it was better from then on.

But not today. As she entered the recess she was pushed heavily from one side, up into the wall. Her backpack was dragged off her back and she spun around to find a gargantuan shadow looming over her with long black hair.

“Did you really think I’d forgotten about our little agreement Commie?” Buck asked, a hand each side pressing her arms into her ribs, “about eating alone sometime.”

Natalia squirmed to free her hands, her heart beating frantically in her undeveloped chest. But he just put more weight against her. When she spat something in Russian he smirked and leant forwards his lips centimetres from her face.

“You’re right, how about we skip the meal and move straight to the dessert.” And then his lips were on hers, hot and heavy so that for a second she didn’t think to fight back. When she did she managed to squirm one hand loose from his grip. He was still forcing kisses against her mouth, hard and wet. It made her want to be sick.

She brought her hand up to slap him off her but he caught her wrist without even looking, pushing it up above her head. Only then did he pull away, giving her grin as if he mistook her anger for an act of passion.  And leant down to kiss her again, pressing his tongue against her lips in an attempt to gain access. She tried to twist her head to the side to break the lock he had on her lips but somehow he didn’t budge so she let his tongue slip into her mouth.

Then she bit down, hard enough to draw blood. His head jumped back and he released one of her hands long enough to slap her, open palm colliding with her jaw. Then he spun her around so her face was pressed against the rough brick wall and his hand held her by her neck.

It was only then when one his hands grabbed her butt cheek that she realised how helpless she was. She couldn’t stop him, even as he pinched painfully at her clothed flesh. She cried out something even as he muttered something else but she couldn’t remember what and his hand moved up around her front to slip under her shirt.

His hands travelled steadily up to pinch the nipple of one undeveloped breast, and she cried silently. There was nothing she could do. His hand twisted painfully and she couldn’t even bring herself to push back in pain. He was still saying things under his breath even as he moved down and she realised where his next target was. She found her senses enough to writhe again, no matter how much it caused her face to scrape up against the bricks, in an attempt to stop him from worming his hand under her jeans.

After a brief struggle that Natalia was sure lasted for hours (but in reality was only seconds) he worked his way beneath the waistline. She felt herself break down, resigning her for the inevitable. Waiting for him to touch her there.

“Hey!” someone called from far down the alley way, too far to see clearly, and Buck’s hands halted. She felt more than heard him whip his head around before deciding to make his exit.

Before he ran off though he whispered something in Natalia’s ear and bolted, making his way for the bus.

It left Natalia slumped there against the wall, her clothing ruffled and tears staining her face. Her cheek was bleeding from where it had rubbed up against the wall. And the person who had called out, stopped what was happening, was walking closer into view. They’d see her in her shame and be disgusted. Just as Natalia was disgusted.

She let out an annoyed groan as the figure got close enough to make out his features. Of course it was someone she recognised, of course it had to be him. His coat was in place and the sleeves went way past his fingertips but Natalia was sure his fists tightened as he recognised her. His eyes went wide, realising what he’d just stopped and his jaw clenched.  It was a heart beat before he adjusted his bag on his back and walked off in the direction Buck had been.

After a few seconds he stopped looking back at her and hesitated once more. He must have remembered her warning from the last time because he didn’t acknowledge the situation other than to say, “You better get going, your bus will be here soon.” And then he was off, his grey coat tail and blonde mane fluttering in the wind. Leaving her to cry alone.

She did, because the one time that she had needed him, he hadn’t been there for her. Because it still wasn’t over. She also cried because she remembered what Buck had said before he left. What he had _promised_.

That they’d continue tomorrow where they had left off.

 

* * *

When Natasha got home, she’d somehow managed to pull herself back together. She mumbled a false explanation for the cuts and bruises on her face when her uncle had asked and told him she wasn’t feeling well, giving an excuse to spend time in her room.

Once she had closed her door and dumped her bag on the floor she slid under the covers of her bed, seeking the warmth and comfort it held. Only then did she allow herself to fall apart again, because the comfort and warmth wasn’t enough. She knew that Buck would keep his promise that he would come again for her tomorrow. And he’d find a way to do it, she realised. She couldn’t always be safe.

She once again remembered the feeling of his touch on her body, the way he had pawed at her. The way he had forced entry into her mouth, and it revolted her. So much so that she only just made it to the bathroom in time to empty her stomach down the toilet.

When her uncle asked what was wrong she yet again told him she wasn’t feeling well. She thought about begging to stay home the next day but threw away the thought. She had come to America to be able to go to school, to have a good life. She couldn’t just beg to stay home from fear.

Luckily she didn’t have to. Her uncle took a look at her briefly before telling her to go to bed, that she’d stay home tomorrow to rest and he would bring her up some dinner later.

She was grateful. She wasn’t used to adults caring even this much when they weren’t her father or mother. She thanked him and momentarily thought about telling him what had happened but decided against it. No one would believe her, indeed she barely believed such a thing had happened.

So she went to bed and spent the next few hours deep in her thoughts, her stomach churning over her fear for the coming days. When dinner was finally brought up, she could hardly touch her food despite the growling of her hungry belly.  Her aunt looked ready to object but finally acquiesced.

Then she went straight to sleep, or at least tried to. She rested fitfully, waking up from nightmares and hearing noises in the dark. Before long it was morning and it had been a restless night, so she slept in and finally found peaceful slumber with the morning sun shining onto her bed. And her uncle and aunt let her, still too timid to scold their new family member.

She procrastinated throughout the day, watching TV and finishing off what little homework she’d been given. Anything that distracted her from her fear was welcoming. It was a comfort, but she knew it was only temporary.

She would have to go to school tomorrow and couldn’t hide any longer. He would be waiting for her, and despite her best efforts he would isolate her. Then he would finish what he started. Natalia Romanov was terrified.

She almost didn’t step off the bus the next morning, expecting- waiting to find Buck Crisholm at the front of the school. It was only with the insistence of an annoyed bus driver that she steeled herself enough to exit the vehicle.

And he wasn’t there. She breathed out a sigh of relief before realising he would only be waiting until later when there were no witnesses, when her guard was down. The paralysing fear returned to her gut and she had to force herself to class when the bell rang. She didn’t learn a lot during the day as she thought about what was probably waiting for her at lunch.

Only he wasn’t there either at lunch and she ate in relative peace. Nor was he waiting after school, even if she took the quickest most populated route to the bus. She counted her blessings that he had not been there that day.

But he wasn’t there the next day either. After that they had the weekend occurred and she was relieved on Monday that he again wasn’t present.  And so it went for everyday onwards and she started to relax.

It wasn’t for a week more that she realised Buck wasn’t the only one to disappear; Clint was gone too. They were both orphans, maybe they’d been adopted she thought. But she didn’t really believe that both of them had simultaneously found a new home.

Sometime later, she didn’t know when, that the rumours started to spread of the two boys disappearance. The problem was they were just that, rumours, and there was plethora of different ones. And they were all contradicting.

One said that Crisholm had finally caught the scrawny boy, and had been arrested for murder. Another said he’d managed to flee after he’d committed the crime. And then another story went that he’d only beaten him to the brink of death and an ambulance had arrived in time to save him.

Other rumours stated that the two had formed a pact and escaped together. _Unlikely_ , Natalia thought. There was one that said they’d both been adopted. One more said that one had been adopted and the other fled. And the stories got more preposterous as the days went by.

After another month however, it became clear that neither teenager was coming back. Only then did the ball of unease subside for Natalia and she realised how afraid she’d been. How helpless she’d been.

So she promised herself she’d never be scared again, that she’d never be vulnerable again. She didn’t care what had happened to either boy, she would focus on herself. What were the chances she’d even see them again, after all?

And she was right. For a while.

It would be another two years before she encountered either of them, and longer still before she’d know what happened.

 

* * *

 

 ** _Two years later_**...

Steve Rogers looked up from the TV when he heard the car pull up, looking at the clock. Time had gotten away from him again and he couldn’t help but laugh; it hadn’t even been that good of a show. Regardless he switched off the television and stood up from the comfortable couch. After a moment’s hesitation he also straightened up the magazines on the coffee table, he wanted to make a good impression with their guest after all.

But he wasn’t a guest; he was going to be living here, Steve told himself for the fifth time that afternoon. It still seemed crazy that it was happening, but then he remembered that he never expected to be living here with his uncle a year ago. Still, even if he wasn’t only a house guest it was the least he could do to look presentable.

He was already moving to the door when it opened and Phil Coulson, his mother’s brother, appeared. Phil obviously had the same thought as Steve, because he was wearing a suit, even on a Saturday afternoon. Even though the door opened, Phil didn’t walk straight in. Instead he seemed to be waiting for someone to walk in, likely their guest- housemate but they weren’t yet visible.

“Go on, welcome to our humble abode.” He said when the boy hesitated.

Steve wasn’t quite sure what to expect, when he’d been told someone would be coming to live with them earlier in the week, he hadn’t been given a lot of details. He knew that they were from the foster care system; he and Phil didn’t have any other relatives they knew about. All Phil had told him on the matter was that “he was a troubled boy with an unfortunate past.” It was enough to tell Steve that the boy had issues and wasn’t going to be strictly normal without giving any details. Phil was big on privacy that way, unless he _needed_ to know, the foster kid would be given the right to reveal or keep his secrets. It was an attitude Steve shared, so he’d tried not to be too curious about the boy.

Whatever he’d expected though, this wasn’t it. The fifteen year old boy who stepped into the room was quiet, barely making a noise as he walked up and stuck a head through the door to look around before entering. Unlike Steve’s mental guess of a troubled child, this person didn’t have dyed hair, piercings, tattoos, patchy facial hair or wear a ratty hoodie and baggy jeans that hung below his waist line. He almost seemed normal with blonde hair (even if it was a little long for Steve’s liking), blue eyes, and clean shaven face. He wore clean clothes that, for the majority, fit him well. Even though it was summer and hot outside, he wore a slim navy hoodie, he’d pulled the hood itself back as he went in, with a grey pea coat over it that was perhaps a little big. He had fitting if a little worn jeans on underneath that and a pair of well used Adidas sneakers. Over his back was a durable black backpack that he was sure he’d seen somewhere described as military surplus.

His eyes stopped moving as he saw Steve and suddenly he looked like a rabbit that had been caught in spotlights, ready to bolt. He took a step back but Phil was standing behind him, blocking his retreat. His hands tightened around his shoulder strap as his eyes flew around the room, looking for an exit. Steve was a little taken back, he suspected the kid might be shy but hadn’t expected him to be this cagey.

“It’s all right; he’s not here to hurt you.” Phil said calmly as he closed the door behind them, and stepped between them to place a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “This here is my nephew, he also lives here.”

Steve shook himself from his passiveness and held out his hand, “The name’s Steve Rogers, it’s good to finally meet you.”

The boy looked at the extended limb as if it was a strange animal, eyeing it as if torn between reaching out to touch it or retreating it back with a stick. His exact thoughts weren’t quite readable as he didn’t deviate at all from a resting neutral expression. His eyes however were constantly moving around the room, between the two other people in the room and towards the door; but after eyeing the offered hand his eye flickered back up to settle on Steve’s face, as if memorising it. Only then did he raise his head in a slight nod, his voice emotionless as he replied, “Barton.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go, end of the prologue. Sorry if it was a little jumpy in there, I don't particularly like writing those scenes. Also you've gotten a glimpse at the (slightly) grown up Clint, probably have your own guesses about what's going to go down. Tell me what you think of this chapter regardless though.


	3. Chapter THREE- New beginnings

Clint watched out the window pointedly, refusing to make contact with the man driving him to god knows where, in the hopes they’d avoid a conversation. He pulled his hood up further around his head, and adjusted his coat’s collar upright so it shielded the lower half of his face from the man’s gaze. At least the coat provided a small measure of comfort.

He sat up a bit straighter when they passed a large sign leading into town. It read ‘WELCOME TO STANHURST, ENJOY YOUR STAY.’ He thought he’d recognised some of the surrounding countryside. It had been what? Little over two years since he’d left this town. That was back before god decided to start pissing on him for shits and giggles.

“I understand you have been here before. I figured it might help staying somewhere with a little more familiarity.” The man, named something-son, said with that unerring calmness that had been present since he’d picked Clint up from the group home. Suppose it sort of made sense, normally. But in this he was wrong, familiar surroundings were not comforting, rather they were the opposite. Who knew who could recognise him from his days in middle school.

And this guy was wearing a fucking suit, on a Saturday. Who wears a suit on a Saturday? Let alone to pick up a foster kid. But then he had mentioned that he was a social worker for the school that Barton would be attending.

 _Just my fucking luck_ , he thought again. Foster kids hated social workers; they got along together as well as cats and dogs. And here he was stuck living with one. _Why does god hate me_.

The social worker (Jackson?) was still talking when Clint tuned back in. The man seemed friendly enough, he was willing to give a kid like Clint a home after all. But that didn’t necessary make him trustworthy. In the foster care system there were all sorts of rumours of assholes who were all smiles and teeth until a week in and then they shed their sheep’s clothing to reveal the assholes they are.

He was talking about Clint’s schedule for the next couple of days until school started. For a second he toyed with the urge to switch off his hearing aids, but decided against it. Tonight he’d be allowed to settle in but he’d have to be up early tomorrow as he had testing to see where he’d be placed in classes. After that he promised to take him shopping for anything he needed clothing wise and stationary. He suppressed a growl, he didn’t need school and he didn’t need their charity. He wasn’t planning on hanging around. But it wouldn’t help him to tell them that.

By the time the social worker finished they were pulling onto a gravel driveway. Clint waited until the social worker (Coulson? Yeah that was it) had exited the car before he climbed out, preferring to keep the man in front of him and in sight. The house was one of those two-storied affairs that you always saw in catalogues and crappy TV shows but to be honest Clint had never stepped inside. The overall colour scheme seemed to revolve around cream and blues that was subtly pleasing to the eye.

It was very suburban; he sniffed at the thought but hefted his backpack anyway. He followed Coulson to the front door.  But when it came to actually entering the house Coulson stood back to let him go first, lest he make a run for it. He was a smart one then.

“Go on, welcome to our humble abode.” Coulson said cordially when he hesitated.

Clint exhaled, deciding to just get it over with. But first he popped his headin the doorway, pulling his hood back to get a clearer look; he wasn’t going to walk into a new place blindly after all. The front door opened into the kitchen area where the decoration was quaint and minimalistic. And neat- definitely a catalogue home. The kitchen was compact and tidy but it seemed to have all the usual appliances and gizmos, and he was especially pleased to see it had a coffee machine (thank god for that).

He didn’t get much further because suddenly there was someone else there wearing jeans and a blue polo shirt. A teenager, Clint thought but the guy was tall, taller than the social worker. He was blonde with a hard jaw line and muscular build, a jock then? No he looked more like the poster child for a stereotypical happy white family. What with his short combed hair and polite expression.

He also realised that this stranger was evaluating Clint as well. So smart as well. Or at the very least he was informed. Clint forced himself to keep a neutral expression as he took a step back, preparing to make a break for it. Before he could make enough room to dash off though, he bumped into Coulson who had stepped up behind him. Grudgingly he moved to allow the social worker to close the door, pretending not to notice the click of a lock engaging.

“It’s all right; he’s not here to hurt you.” Coulson explained as he moved to stand next to the tall blonde, “This is my nephew, he also lives here.”

“The name’s Steve Rogers, it’s good to finally meet you.” The man was smiling at him and extending his hand. Clint looked at it for a few seconds, he didn’t feel particularly inclined to accept it. He didn’t plan on staying here long so why bother making friends with the people that would hate him in the long run, but he memorised the name and face anyway.

“Barton.” He finally said, not stating whether it was his first or last name, and he didn’t elaborate. It was the name they could use, didn’t want them to feel too familiar with him.

“Well Barton, it looks like I’m your new housemate.” If Rogers was pissed off at all he didn’t show it. Although Coulson raised an eyebrow at him but what did he expect; Clint was sure the words ‘Problem child’ appeared on his case file more than his actual name did. Clint didn’t acknowledge the nephews statement; he just kept watching the two until the silence grew awkward.

“Perhaps you should give him the tour Steve so that he can get settled.” The social worker suggested.

And so Rogers did, taking him through the house room by room and explaining everything like a happy little puppy. The house was kept it tidy, Clint noticed; he could appreciate that, why ruin shit when it only took a couple minutes to maintain it. They had a modest TV in the living room and old but comfortable furniture but no video games, although there was a healthy dose of movies. On the ground floor there was also a bathroom and the master bedroom besides the kitchen and dining area.

Upstairs lead to three smaller rooms, all with their own bathrooms, and Steve Rogers occupied the one closest to the stairs. Clint loosely took note of the creaky floor boards and any windows that opened to the outside that might prove useful later on.  There was also an attic hatch in the hall as well he noted with what the closest thing he’d had to a smile today.

When Rogers offered him his choice of the two remaining rooms Clint didn’t hesitate to ask for the one at the far end of the corridor. It was smaller he knew, but the window also looked out onto the front of the house. It was a valuable line of sight. If Steve thought anything of his urgency he didn’t point it out, but smiled and said “I’m going to head downstairs. If you need anything don’t hesitate to ask.”

Clint locked the door when he was finally left alone (at least he could lock it) and properly inspected his room. There was a reasonable sized single bed up against the wall, a built in wardrobe and a desk. It was very Spartan or for lack of fancier words; empty. The bathroom was also small, but at least it had a bathtub. But the thing he really prized was the large window that he could escape from.

When he attempted to slide it up however it only let out a muffled thud. He looked down to find out why it wouldn’t budge in the slightest, there was a lock on it. With a keyhole in it.

He let out a growl.

 _Clever Coulson,_ he admitted grudgingly, _real clever_.

He sat down on his bed with a huff, dropping his bag into his lap, perhaps he should at least pretend to settle in. Opening it, he looked at his meagre possessions with pride. Almost everything was old or second hand, but they were well taken care of. _Respect the gear Barton_ , he whispered the motto under his breath.

Aside from a few t-shirts and a fresh change of underwear, there was a flashlight, pair of prescription glasses, pocket knife, a toothbrush, tennis ball and mp3 player. Not a lot for everything he owned, but it was enough. On the other hand, he decided, maybe he wouldn’t unpack. He wanted to be ready to go at the first opportunity.

Instead he took out his mp3 player and fitted the headphones on his ears, allowing the beat of 80’s rock to calm his racing mind.

The window was locked, but he could try and escape through another one in the house, he thought. Almost immediately he crossed out that option. Coulson would have figured to lock all of them. The attic however was an option. Maybe he’d overlooked security on any exits from there. Clint would have to bide his time he realised, because the creaky floorboard was directly under the access hatch and the two relatives would come running if they heard them.

He let out a huff, perhaps it was worth just waiting for school and making a break for it there. They couldn’t keep an eye on every student, could they? Regardless, he was stuck here for now. he realised with a frown.

* * *

Steve was panicking, he’d lost Clint Barton. He was meant to keep an eye on the boy for the first couple days at school and it wasn’t even first period of day one.

Things had gone smoothly over the weekend since Clint arrived. They’d had pizza for dinner that night and gone over a few details. Mainly rules (no drugs or alcohol and the 11 o’clock curfew among others) and chores. They’d expanded on their introductions and talked about their interests (Steve and Phil had talked, Clint had mostly listened) and when he’d asked they’d let him return to his room.

The next day Phil had taken him to do his placement testing. The results said Clint had done average but then Steve wasn’t sure the kid had actually tried. But he wasn’t one to judge. The downside of this was that they only had one subject together, Maths, and he wouldn’t be able to bond with him through their shared subjects.

They’d also taken Clint shopping which had been everything short of a disaster. The boy wasn’t interested at all in picking stuff out. He didn’t argue when they bought his school supplies, opting for the cheapest of everything despite Coulson insistence that it was no trouble. He’d protested when they bought him a cell phone and few other luxuries until they had to force the items into his hands.

There had been another relaxing afternoon and Clint had surprised them by offering to make dinner. At first Phil was dubious of his ability and motives, but he just explained that it was the least he could do. Steve had just been glad he was integrating into the household a bit more. Less than an hour later there was steaming plates of pasta ready, and they soon found out that it was actually edible.

After they had finished and the dishes cleared away, Phil had pulled Steve aside. “I think he’s going to make a run for it.”

“What? Why?” Steve was confused; surely the cooking had been a good thing.

“I think he wanted to apologise for what he’s about to do.”  Phil looked like he wasn’t surprised in the least, like he’d been expecting it.

“How can you besure?”

“Because he hasn’t unpacked his bag. I reckon he’ll try soon though, so I need you to keep an eye on him tomorrow as much as possible.” Phil had said. Steve had agreed because he actually liked this shy kid, having him around was what Steve imagined having a brother was like, and it was the right thing to do.

But now he’d lost him. They’d caught the bus to school, sitting next to each other at the back for the trip. When the bus dropped them off however, Steve lost him in the crowd after looking away for less than a second towards the main building. Now no matter which direction he looked, towards the school or away, he couldn’t make him out in the throng of bodies.

He could feel his palms getting clammy and his heart beating a frantic tattoo in his chest. He’d lost him. He’d failed to keep his promise to his uncle, the man who had taken him in and looked after him when no one else would. The mass of students was finally starting to disperse and Steve found himself shaking with anxiety. He couldn’t see him anywhere.

The bell went and there were only a handful of people outside when he finally thought to call out. He took a deep breath to yell.

And then he took another.

And another.

And another after that; he couldn’t seem to get enough air into his lungs. His breaths were too shallow, too quick. There was tightness in his chest and neck and he started to cough. That’s when it hit him, too late he realised he was having an asthma attack.

He pulled his bag off his back and dropped it at his feet. He reached for the zippered pocket on the side with shaking hands and it took three more tries before he actually got a grip on the zipper pulls. Unzipping the pocket he reached in to take out his inhaler.

The coughing was getting worse, to the point where it was jolting his whole body uncontrollably. When there was a lapse momentarily he pulled out the inhaler, already moving it on a path to his lips.

Another far worse cough hit him and he convulsed violently, dropping the inhaler a foot in front of him on the grass. But it was too late to try and reach out for it. The fit didn’t stop and now he was on his knees, before he collapsed heavily on his side, clutching at his chest.

The pain was so intense he couldn’t make sense of his surroundings, just receiving flashes of information. No one else was outside, it hit him. He was going to die. Already his vision was darkening and the heavy _doof-doof_ of his heart beat slowing down was the only thing he could hear.

 _Wait a second,_ _Doof-doof? This isn’t dubstep is it?_ He pondered.

No it wasn’t. He quickly identified the sound of sneakers running along pavement. Heavy wool brushed against his skin in the next moment as someone pressed an object into his hand and moved his arm up to his mouth. His inhaler!

“Rogers stay with me! Breath! Come on Rogers!” The person was yelling.

Steve didn’t know where he found the strength to fight against his traitorous lungs and stop coughing long enough to use the inhaler. Sweet oxygen flooded into his body with every breath and he kept going. The persons hand didn’t leave his wrist until he finally had enough strength to open his eyes and look up.

“It’s okay. You’re going to be all right Rogers.” Clint was saying as he knelt down beside him. The first thing Steve made out visually was the grey coat that he’d felt touch him before. Then it was the boy’s piercing blue eyes and blonde mane.

When he finally had enough breath in his body, he managed to mutter “Steve.”

“Excuse me?”

“Call me Steve.” He grunted again as he forced himself into a sitting position, his legs splayed out in front of him.

Clint rolled his eyes as he flopped back himself, mirroring his posture. “Fine, whatever you say Steve. Just let’s not do that again, you almost gave me a fucking heart attack.”

Steve scrunched his nose, about to ask him to tone down the vocabulary when something struck him. He burst out laughing, causing Clint to look up at him. “What?” the shorter boy asked.

“That was the most words you’ve said to me all week. It probably even counts as a real conversation.” Steve huffed, “Does this mean we’re friends?”

Clint looked like he thought Steve had lost a few brain cells in the attack but his lips slowly rose in a crooked smile. Then he said something that sent Steve into a fresh wave of laughter. “I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was our first look at Clint's POV. I'll admit it was a little choppy and dull, but I plan to improve on that.


	4. CHAPTER FOUR- Blasts from the past.

Clint wanted to smack his face into the table, hard.

 _You’re an idiot Barton,_  he repeated to himself, _you’re a fucking idiot._ Although he was sure his father would have laughed at that, you’re an idiot and your solution is to lose some more brain cells. Figures.

Since when did he care what his dad thought.

_Fuck you dad, go have another drink._

Hating the memory of his father momentarily relieved him of his growing headache but he was still angry at himself. He’d gotten away clean. That blonde boy hadn’t even seen him slip into the mass of students that were looking to find their friends before class and catch up over the holidays. He’d counted on that crowd behaviour. By the time Rogers- _Steve_ realised he was gone, the crowds were dispersing and Clint was halfway down the street, smiling to himself. Then the school bell had gone off and he risked a look behind him to see his good work. The poster boy was likely already in the school looking for him, or had forgotten about him.

But he hadn’t, Steve was still where he was and bent over double as he coughed. The buses had already left and the few students still around were not paying any attention. Clint frowned, maybe he had a cold? In summer? You’re an idiot Barton.

Then Steve had slung his bag off and pulled out an inhaler. Asthma then. Still the boy had it covered, Clint told himself. But another coughing fit had the inhaler fall from his hand and the blonde goody-two-shoes keel over to the ground. Clint had seen enough fits to know the boy wouldn’t be able to control himself enough to reach it.

Clint’s mind said _shit!_ But his body was already running over. He picked up the inhaler and he helped guide it to Steve’s mouth without even thinking about it. When the kid was finally breathing and able to walk, he finally realised his mistake. But he still got him to the sick bay, with the hopeful intention of ditching him after.

But Steve had surprised, and foiled, him by asking the nurse if Clint would stay here. When the woman said it was Clint’s choice, the boy’s face had been too hopeful to say no. He still wasn’t convinced it wasn’t a ploy to make sure he didn’t run off again but he also felt guilty. Steve didn’t, probably wouldn’t, say it but Clint knew the asthma attack had been partly caused by Clint’s Houdini act. Yeah, it was Clint’s fault.

So he stayed with Steve the whole time, chatting idly to pass the time. Clint didn’t talk about himself but he felt he owed the big guy to at least tell some jokes. It didn’t actually relieve his guilt but it made Steve smile a bit more readily, which was a start.

When they finally got released they had missed out on two classes and Steve insisted on walking him to his third. So he even had to sit through his history teacher introducing him to the class like some sort of prized freak, and asking him to tell them something about himself. Frustrated, he made up some bullshit about liking sports and sat down to pretend he wasn’t falling asleep at the teacher’s voice. It was a relief when the class was over.

Now at lunch he found himself a quiet table in the corner of the cafeteria. He kept his head down and tried not to draw attention to himself whilst still keeping an eye on the surrounding groups. He sat down sideways on the bench so his back was against the wall. It was an old habit, but it let him see the doors and that lowered his heart rate a little.

Once again he contemplated actually hitting his head on the table. He quickly dismissed the thought; he didn’t need to draw unnecessary attention to himself. Still he took a couple deep breaths to calm the violent thought away completely, trying to find the silver lining his therapist had always hammered on about. At least he hadn’t met anyone who recognised him from the past, he told himself. He didn’t know what he’d to then or how he’d answer their questions.

Lying. That how he would answer their questions. It’s how he always answered questions. Because that’s what he did best.

 _But what if they asked about ~~Cris~~ him?_ He thought. Because he knew that they wouldn’t have seen the other guy since that night two years ago. He would have been sent off elsewhere even when he finally was released. And he knew that he might be associated with why the guy left. Hell, there was no _might_ about it. And he knew they’d figure out that-

Breathe Barton, breathe. It didn’t matter, no one knew him. Thank fuck for that.

“Hey Clint, how are you going?” Startled he looked up to find Steve walking over, “I mean seeing as it’s your first day and all, must be exciting.  Although you didn’t get to go to all your lessons. Sorry about that.”

Steve was babbling. And wringing his hands? Nervous about something, Clint guessed but answered honestly. “I’m fine. More worried about you actually; how are you feeling?” Okay, it was a half-truth but Steve didn’t know that.

“I-I’m good too. Actually I was wondering, if you don’t mind... I mean if it’s okay with you, I mean...”

“Steve calm down or you might keel over again.” Clint said lightly, but not loud enough to be eavesdropped. He wasn’t sure how comfortable Steve was with his condition. “What can I do for you?”

Steve looked back towards his table where there were five teenagers around their age, sitting and chatting. “Well I was wondering if you would like to come and meet my friends, at least you won’t have to be eating alone.” Clint thought he understood, Steve was worried he was feeling lonely. But he was also worried that Clint would find it uncomfortable. Clint hadn’t really given him much evidence that he liked people, he supposed.

“Maybe I like eating alone.” He said deadpan.

Even though he smiled a second later to show he was joking, Steve looked like he’d just put his foot in his mouth. “Of course, I uh, never said there was anything wrong with that. Because there isn’t... anything wrong with that. I just meant...”

Now Clint felt worse when Steve kept babbling. The guy was a people pleaser, it seemed. And he’d asked Clint over to be nice in the first place. Unable to take any more guilt Clint interrupted him, feeling thoroughly like an asshole. “I was kidding. I’d love to go meet your friends.”

Another lie, that makes two. But hey who was counting? Oh wait, me.

He stood up from his table, glad to see some colour return to Steve’s face. When Steve turned back, he followed but thought to himself; Great, more strangers. Some carnie you are, Barton, getting talked into shit you don’t want to do; it’s meant to be the other way around.

But he tried to convince himself that there was no harm, he hadn’t seen any kids he recognised from the orphanage, let alone the school. No one here recognised him.

Moving closer he could make out the group a little better, there were three guys and two girls. And they all looked like someone had chosen a kid from every different social group and pushed them together for a psychology experiment. He tried to get a read on them from where he was. There was the rich kid (designer t-shirt, raised chin and perfectly styled haircut gave it away), the nerd (his face was in a textbook), the student leader (she had a clipboard, who even has a clipboard in high school), the jock (although with Steve that made two) and there was the cool chick with her back to him (too cool to even turn around and join the others in watching Clint and Steve approach).

Only he didn’t get very far before he recognised something. Sitting there with his back to him was a girl with a very familiar shade of red hair. What had he just been saying about how he hadn’t seen anyone he recognised yet. This was it, the mother-of-all-people-he-didn’t-want-to-see-him. Random students from school would have been bad enough but this was the person at the centre of his disappearance.

Everyone stopped what they were talking about and looked up when he stopped dead in his tracks. Steve even paused at the table to check on him, but Clint found he couldn’t move, his heart rate was rising quickly. Her back was still to him as she glanced around at everyone else who was waiting for some elaboration. Why had the weird kid stopped mid-step like he’d seen a corpse, or a ghost? He was still hoping it was a mistake; surely anyone could have that particular shade of red hair.

“Guys what is it? Who’s wearing a peacoat?” she asked, obviously in regards to a previous conversation. Then she seemed to realise and turned around to face him. In that moment Clint knew it hadn’t been a mistake, he hadn’t just mistaken her for someone else. Because even if she was taller, with a more feminine body than he’d known before, her face still flashed with recognition. She paled and managed to stammer out one word.

“You?” it was an accusation. In the back of his mind he noted that her accent wasn’t as strong as it used to be. Made sense actually, it had been two years since she’d been here.

But his mind focused on everything this meant. All the implications it could mean for him. Because right here was the girl he hadn’t seen for two years. Natalia Romanov, the girl he’d last seen in an alley with that proverbial he-who-will-not-be-named.

“Fuck me.” He managed in reply.

* * *

Natasha Romanoff hurried into the cafeteria, oblivious to the eyes on her. People always watched her now, but she was Natasha, she didn’t care what other people did. She spotted her friends, well Steve’s friends, over at their usual table and sat down in a huff. She cracked her neck to the right and left before taking a sip from the coffee in her hands. Only then did she nod a hello to the rest of the gang.

“Nice of you to finally show up Red,” Tony Stark said from across the table, “we thought you’d finally been deported back to Russia.” He said it after every day back from the holidays. It wasn’t her fault she never saw him during the break unless he threw a party, he was otherwise on vacation or at one of his family’s various summer homes. Or in a police station.

Still Natasha threw him a raised eyebrow, despite whatever the multi-billionaire Stark heir said he was terrified of her. “Hello Stark. I thought we got rid of you with that last felony, front page this time. Do you feel famous yet?” She smirked, next to him her friend Pepper rolled her eyes.

Tony huffed crossing his arms in front of his Metallica t-shirt. “Come on Natasha, you should know by now that Starks don’t do jail time. And I _am_ famous.”

Luckily for her Pepper cut him off before they could continue their argument. “Well I for one am glad to see you. You weren’t there in English, I got worried I’d have to sit next to Logan.”

“Thanks Pepper, I got called in on an emergency shift.” Natasha explained.

Steve was shifting in his seat next to her, his head whipping around and his hands drumming on the table anxiously. He stopped long enough to say “Isn’t that illegal? To be working during school hours.” before continuing.

“I’m not giving up money to listen to everyone go on about their summer.” She said before turning to the rest of the group and gesturing to Steve. He wasn’t usually like this; the prim and proper Steve Rogers was always about keeping calm and following the rules. “What’s up with him?” she asked.

“He had another attack this morning.” Bruce said without looking up from his textbook, “Pretty bad one too from what I’ve heard.”

“It’s not just that, he’s looking for the new guy.” Tony explained.

“The new guy?” Natasha’s curiosity peaked, had Steve found another poor soul to join their merry gang of misfits.

“Yeah.” He turned to her, “My uncle told me to keep an eye on my foster bro- this foster kid he took in. He saved me from my asthma attack this morning; I couldn’t get to my inhaler in time. So I owe him, but I haven’t seen him since third period.”

“Well,” Pepper frowned, “what subject did he have? Maybe he got kept in late.”

At the far end of the table Thor managed to stop eating long enough to chime in a booming voice, “History, we had it together. He was the first out.” And then he was stuffing his face again with a seemingly endless amount of food.

Steve stood up from the table, chucking a over the shoulder “I’m going to go look for him. I won’t be long.”

With Steve gone, everyone looked at Thor, (with the exception of Bruce who was still reading) until he noticed. When he did, he froze with his mouth full of food and that cautious what just happened look on his face. Something about control freak Pepper Potts, big money teenage delinquent Tony Stark and Natasha tough-as-nails Romanov looking at you expectantly was terrifying enough for even the oblivious Thor Odinson to shrink in his seat. As if it was even possible for him to get any smaller.

He swallowed his food loudly before speaking, “What?”

“You know what.” Natasha said seriously.

“No I don’t.” Then again it was Thor so there was a high chance he really didn’t.

“Details Gigantor.” Tony Stark cut in, “The new guy, what have you got.”

Thor gave a shrug, “I don’t really know a lot about him. He was asked to introduce himself to the class. He did not look too pleased with that but said his name and something about sports.”

“And what was it?” Tony asked pointedly.

“What was what?” Thor really was oblivious, Natasha reminded herself. Otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to hold back the urge to beat the answer out of him.

“His name, Thor. What was his name?” Pepper asked with a lot more restraint than the other two had. Tony was a hyper person who basically mainlined coffee so he had something of an excuse. Natasha just wasn’t a patient person in general. Some people also threw the words overly-aggressive but she’d learnt to tune them out.

Thor looked at them for a second before blinking twice. “I forgot?”

“Was that a fricking question? You forgot?” Tony said as he almost jumped out of his seat. Slowly he calmed himself, “Alright, we’ll have to ask Steve. Blondie over here is living up to the stereotype. And Natasha’s already got that whole crazy redhead thing covered so...”

“Hey!” the two redheads, Natasha and Pepper protested loudly, Thor unsurprisingly was oblivious and smiled. Natasha wasn’t sure how she got the title ‘crazy’ but she somewhat suspected breaking that Murdock kid’s wrist when he touched her last year hadn’t helped. She felt a little bad about it, the kid was blind after all. But only a little. As it turned out, the whole thing had been a result of Tony Stark pulling a prank. Tony himself had only barely escaped a broken bone of his own by locking himself in his locker until Steve could rescue him.

“Think about it though,” Tony explained in that tone he used when he thought he had a brilliant idea (keyword being thought), “this kid is new and lonely. And Steve said he’s in the foster system so he must have some sort of condition right? Those sorts of kids usually do.”

“Tony! That’s so ru-.” Pepper started.

“Right? The word you’re looking for is ‘true’ actually Pep. But that’s not important. He’s probably gullible and insecure. If we help him out by being his friends he’ll idolize us and we can get him to do whatever we want. He’ll already look up to Steve because their foster brothers... Or is it foster cousins? Anyway if we play our cards right, we’ll have our own little minion.”

It took a second for Natasha to sift through the waterfall of bullshit Tony usually spun whilst talking to understand what he was saying but she figured he was joking. Bruce who had been reading diligently joined the conversation at the wrong time and looked up with a frown. Pepper might not have been listening because she was staring off into space, eyebrow cocked like she could figure out what went on in Tony’s mind, Natasha didn’t blame her for trying. Thor was nodding his head along as if he’d heard every word but no one even pretended to believe he actually had.

“You are talking about manipulating someone into being a slave.” Bruce summarised, “Do I even have to tell you why that is a bad idea?”

Tony raised an eyebrow before answering, “You are talking about the ethical issue aren’t you?”

Bruce let out an exasperated groan, “No I’m talking about the psychology of it. Yes of course I’m talking about the ethical issue! What the hell is wrong with you?”

Natasha was thinking the same thing but the conversation was abruptly halted by Pepper asking randomly. “Who would wear a pea coat on a day like today?”

“No one.” Natasha answered the obvious question. It was still smotheringly humid from the holidays so the question was weird. She went to give Tony and Bruce a look like the one she’d given towards Steve earlier but stopped.

Those two had also paused to stare into space, like Pepper had been. This was weird. Natasha sniffed distastefully, she didn’t do weird. “Guys what is it? Who’s wearing a peacoat?” She asked, eager to not be left out when she noticed that Steve had come to stand next to her. But he’d turned back expectantly. Suddenly it made sense; they were all watching something behind her. The new guy, she suddenly realised with a start. They were waiting to be introduced.

So she turned to look behind her. Sure enough there was a kid standing there, looking like he’d seen a ghost. He had shaggy blond hair and a grey peacoat and- Wait a second. Shaggy blonde hair? A grey pea coat? It fit him better than last time but it was definitely the same one. She looked up to his eyes to find those same light blue orbs.

“You?” she said. It was definitely him. The one person- alright, one of two people that she never wanted to see again. He was a reminder of what Crisholm had done to her. He was a reminder of Natasha when she was weak. Before she had remade herself from the darkness that haunted her dreams. She definitely didn’t want to see him again.

By his reaction he was thinking the same thing. “Fuck me.” He said. She completely agreed with his choice of words.

* * *

 

There was a long awkward silence before Steve said, “Come on, have a seat.”

Clint was contemplating doing the opposite, his eyes wide with that whole fight or flight reaction coursing through his mind. He looked up to Steve, then back to Natasha. Then he repeated it again.

He was thinking of running. Natasha could tell as soon as he huffed at his hair. Then he blew at it once more in a final attempt to get it out of his eyes before pushing it back. Jesus, did he still do that when he was thinking, Natasha asked herself.

She hoped he’d run. Hoped he’d leave so that they could avoid the awkwardness that followed. She didn’t know if she could be in the same room as him. Not after what happened. Not after she’d rebuilt herself and her reputation. She silently asked him to leave.

But he stayed, in spite of her telepathic prayer, mumbling to himself and a look to Steve, and went around the table to sit between Bruce and the wall. She didn’t miss the fact that that was as far away from her as he could be without leaving, and she didn’t think the rest of them did either. Bruce looked startled to be singled out in this manner.

“Do you want to tell us how you and hobo-boy know each other? Because I’m sure the rest of us are wondering.” Tony said, smiling when Clint narrowed his eyes at him. It was clear the scruffy blonde didn’t want to be here, his body was so tensed you could see it even under his heavy coat.

Then Clint was staring at her, waiting to see her response. She returned it with her own stare. “I knew him in middle school.” She explained sourly, daring him to object.

Then it was Steve’s turn to look at her inquisitively, but he was too polite to ask. Instead he turned to Clint, “I didn’t know you went to Stanhurst.”

“You didn’t ask.” Clint said with the same stiff tone as Natasha as he continued to glare back at her. It raised an eyebrow from the rest of the group but Steve didn’t look surprised. She supposed he was probably used to his stand offish attitude after living with him for a few days.

Tony Stark was the only one who called out on the obvious tension, and Natasha could have killed him for that. But then Tony didn’t know the definition of biting one’s tongue. “Do you or Natasha ever give a proper answer or is that something the two of you learnt in school together?”

Clint glanced at Natasha, face passive but an eyebrow furrowed like he could possibly glare her out of existence. Then he looked at Steve, “I’ve met your friends, can I go now?” The tone of voice was like a kid saying it had been sixty seconds since they were told to wait for a minute.

Before Steve could say something in response, Thor was standing up and holding out a hand across the table. “But we haven’t properly introduced ourselves. I am Thor Odinson, and it is a pleasure to meet you.” He said in his indoor voice, which was much too loud for even an outdoor voice.

Clint cringed in response, and shot a look at the intruding hand that might have curdled milk. “Barton.” He told it. He didn’t make a move to shake hands. When Steve gave him what could only be defined as a please-be-nice look, he sighed and added a “Clint Barton” but still didn’t shake.

Thor smiled onwards oblivious, or perhaps he remembered how Natasha had been when they first met and decided not to push it. Before he could respond with more yelling however, Pepper reached past Bruce and swatted aside the still outstretched limb. “Sorry about them Barton. My name is Virginia Potts but everyone calls me Pepper.”

Clint stared at her face for a second before opening his mouth to speak. They never found out whether it was going to be friendly or not because Tony butted in, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. “And I’m her boyfriend Tony Stark (that was a lie, Natasha thought). Don’t fall on your knees and grovel before me though, I don’t want you to hurt your legs.”

Clint just stared at him with what could only be defined as a resting bitch face. He didn’t react at all to Pepper’s protest that Tony wasn’t in any way romantically involved with her but instead seemed to be studying Tony like a bug. After another tense second he turned to ask the rest of the table, an innocent expression on his face even if it was a little snarky. “Should I know him?”

“My father only owns the world’s largest manufacturing company, which develops the best of everything from smart phones to jet planes. He’s also the fifth richest man in the United States alone.” Tony never could resist being baited.

“Wow, I guess your _daddy_ is somewhat of a big deal then.”

“What ar-.” A hand was clamped firmly over Tony’s mouth be Bruce, who had to lean past Pepper to do so. But she actually looked kind of relieved.

He ran a hand through his unruly hair before breathing out. “Sorry about him. My name’s Bruce and its good to meet you.” Clint gave him a nod in return, again staring rather intensely. “Steve’s told us a lot about you, even if Natasha held out on us.”

When Clint looked at the two in question Steve mumbled an apology whilst Natasha grumbled, “Seriously you’re going to focus on that? Почему я дружил с любым из вас?”

“That’s rude.” Clint muttered and looked up at him curiously. They were used to Natasha grumbling to herself in Russian, they just ignored it. Suddenly he looked like he hadn’t realised he spoke. And regretted it.

“What’s rude?” Bruce asked when even Tony didn’t speak.

Clint looked at him like it was obvious. “She just asked why she puts up with you all. That’s rude. What?”

“You speak Russian?” everyone asked simultaneously with the exception of Tony who glared at Natasha and instead said “You said that about me.” Natasha could only narrow her eyes at Clint.

“ **Since when do you speak Russian?** ” She asked in Russian.

“ **Since when are you _Natasha_?** ” he countered caustically. Natasha noted with satisfaction that his pronunciation was slightly off.

“Want to clue us in guys?” Steve asked, sensing the secret argument.

Natasha was happy to remain silent; she didn’t want to drag her past into the light if she didn’t have to and she could out wait their curiousity if she had to. Clint however just shrugged angrily, turning to look anywhere but at her before answering, “She asked me why I know Russian.”

“So why do you?” Pepper asked. His gaze snapped up at her so dangerously that she flinched, but held her gaze. His jaw tightened and for a second Natasha thought he’d shut himself off.

Again he shrugged, but his tone was defensive when he explained. “I had a friend who spoke Russian, and wasn’t yet comfortable with English. So I learnt.” He suddenly scowled and pushed himself up from the bench, shouldering his bag. He shot Natasha a quick glance before adding, “Not that it’s any of your business anyway.” And he was gone, Steve watched after him helplessly.

There was a moments silence before Tony tried to lighten the mood. “Are you sure I can’t enslave him?”

Natasha wanted to smile and join in on the joke at Barton’s expense. She was angry at him. What gave him the right to turn back up in her life after everything he’d done? She wanted to hate him for that. But she couldn’t quite get past being angry.

Because Natasha was shocked; she remembered him saying he wanted to learn another language but never thought he’d go through with it. He was just another boy making promises he couldn’t keep. And that was the lesser of the two facts. He’d done it for her. Even after everything she’d said to him back then he’d learnt a whole new language for her. He thought of her as a friend, whilst she had hated him in memory for everything he’d done.

She suddenly felt a little guilty. But only a little, she told herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our first look at Natasha Romanoff in the modern setting. Also the first look at the group dynamic, even if they're a little fractured. Let me know if you have any suggestions for how to portray various characters. I must admit I find Pepper and Tony and Steve a little difficult to write.


	5. CHAPTER FIVE- reasons to stay...

Phil Coulson was waiting at the dinner table when Steve walked through the door with Clint in tow. How was that even possible, Clint asked himself? Wasn’t he the school social worker? Didn’t teachers stay behind after school for hours to do paperwork? At least that’s what they complained about. The two teenagers paused just inside the door, looking at each other, one tall and broad while the other was short and scrawny, neither of them was able to read Coulson’s impassive face.

He was still wearing a suit, heck Clint thought, he was always wearing a suit. But his tie was off, which Clint wasn’t sure if it was meant to be casual or it was a sign he wasn’t acting in his professional capacity. Was that a good thing or a bad thing?

“I’m going to need to talk to Clint for a minute Steve. Privately.” He said in that forever confident tone of voice.

Steve looked back at him for a second. They hadn’t talked about Clint’s outburst since Steve met Clint at the end of his final lesson and escorted him to the bus. He was amazed at the self-control the older boy. He was even more grateful that Steve was checking with him if he needed him to stay, despite the wishes of his family. Every sense of survival screamed not to be left alone with this adult but Clint gave the older high school freshman a reluctant nod, he could go.

“I’ll just be out in the shed then if you need me.” The golden child said before exiting out the back door. Heck, Clint didn’t even know they had a shed. He resisted the sudden compulsion to join him.

Now it was just him and Coulson in the room.

“Sit.” The social worker commanded. The order pissed Clint off but he knew when to obey so he obliged. You know, picking you battles and all that.

“What’s this about?” he asked tentatively. He knew that it was the wrong thing to say when he heard his guardian’s sharp hiss as he exhaled. Clint mentally prepared himself for the barrage of blows that was surely incoming. Adult's tended not to like you upsetting them, especially when you were a snot nosed kid.

But Coulson didn’t snap, didn’t react. And somehow that was more terrifying, because Clint couldn't read him. At least if he threw something, Clint wouldn’t be surprised; a violent man was reliable if nothing else when they were angry. Instead he just spoke in that same monotone, his words carefully chosen. “Do you think I’m stupid, Clint Barton?”

Well that was trick question for sure. An old part of Clint felt the urge to rise to the challenge with a glib response and really piss him off, reasoning that hey he’s not my dad, he can’t hit me. But Clint had learnt well enough that people didn’t need to be your family to come to blows with you. Something told Clint that there was only one good answer to such a loaded question. “No... sir.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out? That I wouldn’t be informed?” Oh, the asthma attack. But what did that have to do with Clint? Why would he send Steve away if the topic was about him. Unless, he’d guessed the cause of Steve’s attack. Surely, that wasn’t possible? But again, Coulson wasn't stupid.

“I honestly didn’t think about it sir.” He felt the need to continue calling him sir. Perhaps the false sign of respect would calm the silent anger he could sense rumbling under the social worker’s calm demeanour. Even if he couldn't see it, he could picture it.

“That’s right, you didn’t. Mary's so- Steve almost died because you decided you wanted to run away.” Finally there was an edge to Coulson’s tone, a hint of the barely contained fury. And suddenly Clint wasn't so happy about getting a rise out of the social worker. Clint could easily imagine it was the human representation of an animal defending its young; its family. “He hasn’t had an attack in seven months, and you’re acting like it is not your fault.”

Finally Clint had had enough; it wasn’t his fault that Steve Rogers had asthma. It wasn’t his fault that Steve panicked. It wasn’t his fault he was moved here against his will without even being asked. A voice inside his head said he deserved it, that Coulson was right to be angry but that was overwhelmed by that old Barton family fallback; blind anger. So he snapped back.

“But he didn’t! And for fuck’s sake, what do you want me to do? Pretend I enjoy being here, because I’m fucking trying!” He didn’t care if he was over reacting, because Coulson had already known he was planning to run. Clint had known he knew. And now that he thought about it, Coulson had probably had a plan in place in case Clint had actually ditched Steve.

“But you are _not_ trying. You haven’t been trying since I brought you here. And that is _all_  I want you to do, Barton. Just try to live here.” Coulson’s voice had lost its edge, but Clint was still angry.

He raised his hands in an exasperated motion, how could he think it's that simple, before rubbing his face. After all Clint had been through in his miserable fifteen years of life. Between his parents, the circus, running away and all the shit that happened after, he was sure his file read special needs all over the place. “You’ve read my file. I’m not like everyone else; I’m not one of them. So how am I supposed to just be a normal kid? And... And you know what memories are waiting for me here? Why I left? How am I meant to just f-fucking forget that, huh?”

He slumped back in his chair to try and control his stuttering. Coulson sensed there was more he wanted to say, so he just waited for him to calm down. That annoyed Clint, why couldn’t he just be an asshole so that Clint was allowed to hate him. Clint blew his hair out of his eyes once, then gave another futile attempt before reaching up and pushing it back before he finally admitted the thing he was absolutely sure of, “I’m not normal, it even says that in my file.”

Coulson paused, seeming to think of how he was going to phrase his next words, to find some fault with Clint's words. Finally he just wearily said. “You’re right, you are not a normal kid. I doubt there is one other student in the entire country that has gone through the events you have. But you should still try. Because I believe you _can_  live here. And I’d like you to stay, Steve would too. But you have to make it happen by at least trying to fit in.”

Clint didn’t speak for a moment, staring at his foster parent. He wanted to hate the man. Because what did you say to an argument like that, especially when it’s made so fucking reasonably. What response could you give that didn’t prove them right and show that you weren’t actually trying. When Clint was ready, he spoke almost too low to hear, “Fine, I’ll _try_ to live here if it means that much to you. But don’t expect any miracles. I’m a carnie, not a magician.”

Phil Coulson looked at him for a long time and Clint felt the sweat build on the back of his neck because it felt like the man was staring into his soul. He didn’t like what secrets Coulson might unearth, because there were some things he knew weren’t in his file. Finally Coulson nodded with a small smile, “That’s all I can ask.”

Clint wasn’t sure if that was a dismissal or not so he waited another awkward moment. He was trying to hide his nervousness. “I think I’ll go check on Steve.” He said finally.

“Alright, I’m going to go over some paper work.” The social worker answered and if he suspected anything, he didn’t let on.

So Clint shouldered his bag quickly, the same bag that still contained all his worldly possessions, and moved towards the sliding door that opened onto the backyard. He was trying to keep a normal gait so that the social worker/ guardian wouldn’t suspect anything.

Because he was a carnie. And lying was what a carnie did best.

A close second was running away.

* * *

 

Steve exhaled slowly as he pushed the barbell up and away again. Then he lowered and repeated, enjoying the burn that spread through his arms and chest. It felt like he was punishing his body for betraying him that morning. He hated that his lungs could just up and quit like that, and he couldn’t do anything about it. He knew the doctor had already explained a dozen times that it wasn’t his fault, but he also knew that he’d be dead if Clint hadn’t returned to save him.

And then there was Clint. The boy was an enigma, and the more Steve learnt about him, the less he knew. On the one hand, Clint Barton was an angry quiet teenager who hated everyone. But on the other, he’d gone out of his way to help Steve when he could have made a clean get away. He hadn’t said Steve owed him one, or asked for acknowledgement. In fact Clint had made a conscious effort to avoid the topic in conversation all together. In fact it was just conversations in general he avoided, especially at lunch with Natasha.

And that was another minefield. Steve had been surprised that they knew each other, or that Clint had gone to Stanhurst Middle School all together. He had suspected that out of all of Steve’s friends, Natasha would get along with Clint the best, because they were so alike; private, introverted and didn’t care what other people thought.

But they hated each other. Admittedly Clint hated everyone (or was it distrust), but with Natasha it was on another level. It was like he was expecting her to jump up and attack him for being in so much as the same school as her. And Natasha? Sure she came off as cold to everyone, but he hadn’t seen her glare at someone so much except for Bobbi Morse. It had got to the point where Steve was tempted to sit them both down and force their history out into the open. Or make them hug it out, which would probably bring them together only in their attempt to kill him.

So he didn’t bring it up because it wasn’t any of his business. He was sure the bible said something about that, respecting others privacy, but he couldn’t remember. He gave a sigh as he raised the bar to rest on the rack with a sigh. He was sure Clint would tell him when he was ready to talk about it. Except maybe he wouldn't, because it was Clint and he was probably planning to run away, again. Which sucked because... because Steve liked having Clint around. It was like having family again. Which Steve knew was wrong and insulting to Phil but it wasn't the same living alone with his uncle. Having Clint there made the house feel more like home.

He slowly sat up and grabbed for his water bottle. He was covered in sweat and he hoped that Phil and Clint were done talking soon so that he could go inside and shower without interrupting. He looked up out of the corner of his eye as he drank, and almost choked. It took a few spluttery coughs to clear his lungs.

Clint Barton was standing there, leaning against the open door frame, one sneaker hooked behind the other. His arms were crossed over his chest but there was smirk that played on his lips at having startled Steve. He definitely had, and Steve hadn't heard any foot steps or the squeaky hinges of the old door. Yeah, he could definitely give Nat a run for her money.

“I knew it. There was no way you didn’t have an exercise room around here somewhere.” Clint said.

Steve decided he must have misheard the tension in his friend’s voice, and gave him an easy smile. “What gave it away?”

“I think it was the fact that your muscles have muscles.”

Steve found himself colouring in response. He knew he’d made a lot of progress in the last year but it was still embarrassing, especially when girls mentioned it. He gestured towards the equipment as he stood up, “You’re welcome to use it. I’ll spot you if you want.”

Suddenly Clint looked nervous, frowning apolagetically and jerking a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the street, “No thanks. I was actually going to go for a run.”

Steve narrowed his eyes subconsciously. Clint was wearing his backpack still (which Steve was positively sure contained all of Clint’s clothes) and was outfitted in the same heavy clothes as before. He couldn’t help but point it out, “Do you normally go for a run in jeans and a coat? Are you planning to come back?”

He got a scowl in response, “If I answer honestly, are you going to let me go.” Steve understood him well enough from their last three days together to know, that that was as close as he would get to an actual goodbye. Clint watched his face warily for a response. He didn’t yet make a move to leave though.

Steve thought for something to say to convince him to stay. To guilt him into staying. But he didn’t know if that would even work on Clint Barton. And did he really have the right to force him to stay, against his will. But it didn't make it any easier to smile.

Instead he opted for changing the conversation, to pretend for a moment that it wasn’t the case. Fortunately he had a topic in mind, seeing as he was genuinely curious. “So would did Phil want with you?” he asked.

Clint hesitated, a worry line furrowing his brow as his mouth set. It was a second before he answered however. “This morning.”

“My asthma?”

“Yeah, I think he figured out that I was to blame.” Clint said slowly.

Steve turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. Steve hadn’t looked at it that way for even a second; it was Steve’s body that had let him down. Not Clint’s. “That’s not true. Besides there’s no way you could have known anyway, I don’t exactly brag about it.” He didn't because he felt ashamed of it even though he knew there was nothing he could do about it.

That returned Clint’s smirk, and he walked over to sit down next to Steve on the bench. “And you don’t exactly fit the bill for unfit and asthmatic bud. Seriously, you’re a tank. I expected you to be captain of the football team or something, not having a lie down at the school gates.”

That raised an eyebrow. “You seriously imagined me as a sports captain? A jock?” Steve laughed at the thought. The image of him in the school’s red and blue uniforms, leading the charge against the opposing team flashed to mind. _That_ was never going to happen.

Clint just shrugged, unashamed. “Can you think of another use for all that lifting?”

“Actually it was my doctor’s idea. Maybe if I trained I’d condition my body so that I wouldn’t get out of breath so easily,  I wouldn’t have so many attacks.” Steve explained, feeling self-conscious now that he’d become the subject of conversation.

There was a moments silence as Clint looked for the right thing to say. “Did it work?”                  

“Not really. I still have asthma attacks, it just means I can lift heavy stuff.”

“That’s it! That's your problem.” Clint stated suddenly.

“Excuse me?” Steve felt a little defensive, it wasn’t his fault he had asthma (even if he’d been blaming himself for it only a minute ago). It was another thing to hear him insulted for it. What had he been saying about how he liked Clint? He took it back.

Clint raised his hands in front of him in a show of surrender. “Just hear me out, big guy. What are you doing for cardio?”

“Cardio?” Steve asked perplexed. What did cardio have to do with his asthma?

“Yeah, like aerobic exercise. It literally means working with oxygen and I bet if you train with it, it’ll help your asthma. So, how about it?”

“Uh, I sort of forgot to factor it in.” Steve had the good sense to look embarrassed.

Clint laughed and clapped him on the back, “Well that’s it. Looks like you need to go for a run, buddy.”

That brought the conversation around full circle and Steve frowned. Clint really had been looking out for him these last three days, and now he was going to leave on his own ‘run’. Suddenly a light bulb went off and Steve straightened up, grinning.  “Well then let’s go.” He said.

Clint’s brow creased again, “What are you talking about?”

Steve couldn’t stop smiling smugly as he explained, “Take off your jacket and put on some shorts. We are going for a run.”

He could almost see the gears grind in his friends head. Clint shook his head, “Nuh uh Steve. I’m-“

“But I can’t go running without someone there to keep an eye on me. What if I have an attack and I can’t reach my inhaler again? I need you to come with me, and you’ll get your run as well.” Steve interrupted before Clint could strengthen his resolve.

“But you know I’m not planning on just going for a run.” Clint tried to explain, still avoiding the words 'running away'.

Finally Steve resorted to begging, “Please Clint. Just this once then after we get back, then if you still feel like it, you can grab your stuff and leave. I won’t even fight it.” He tried his best attempt at the big eyed puppy face that had got him extra cookies as a kid, “I promise.”

Clint stared at him like he’d grown a second head. Finally he huffed, muttering a curse under his breath and nodded. Steve had to restrain himself from hugging him, instead he settled for a victorious “Yes”. Clint stood up, walking towards the house.

“Fine, one run and then I’m gone. Just let me change and I’ll be out.”

Steve couldn’t help but smile smugly, it was a small victory but it was a victory. He might have to work his body to the bone, but he would make sure Clint was too exhausted to leave tonight.

* * *

 

That’s how Clint found himself stuck running with Steve forty minutes later. Well when he say running he really meant jogging. And when he said jogging it was really just Clint jogging three blocks before stopping because Steve had another asthma attack. But Clint was feeling generous so he’d tell everyone they were running.

And he had to wear athletic clothes, he thought grimly. He alread missed his peacoat and trousers, their extra protection. In the school issue gym shorts and breathable shirt he felt way too exposed, and visible. So he was glad that Steve was too occupied to notice the various scars on his pasty white arms. Otherwise he would have called it quits and ditched the golden boy ages ago.

But Clint was impressed, five asthma attacks and god knows how many blocks later, Steve was still soldiering on. The attacks, while frequent, had also thinned out with more ground being covered between each. And Steve took that as a victory, which Clint guessed was only fair. Eventually it was Clint who called a break when they reached the park, even though he was only panting lightly from exertion. Steve however was wheezing like someone had simultaneously broken every one of his ribs. He all but collapsed when they pulled up to a park bench.

“Are you okay?” Clint asked as he fished two water bottles out of Steve’s bag, (it had quickly been transferred to Clint’s back after the first attack).

Steve took another shuddering breath before sitting a little straighter. “What are you getting tired? I could do this all day.” He huffed as he accepted the water bottle, and indeed he did have a healthy flush to his cheeks.

They sat in silence as they rehydrated, watching the sun sink close enough to kiss the rooftops around them. Clint found it to be a peaceful quiet, he thought the word companionable was fitting. The park around them was beautiful, and deceptively large. The rolling green plain was mowed immaculately and was impeded only by the white pebbled paths and a large pond that occupied the very center. The sillouette of the local mall and other businesses provided the perfect back drop for the slice of green.

It took a second to recognise the sound of Steve clearing his throat before the boy asked, “So how do you know Nat?”

Clint blanched, both at the suddenness of the question and the idea that the hot fiery Russian girl he knew would let anyone call her 'Nat'. Schooling his expression he cast Steve a sideways look. Apparently the golden boy had decided to spring questions on Clint now that they were good and tired. Good tactic. If Clint wasn’t so content not moving he would have smacked him then and there. Maybe, he didn't want to kill the still wheesing kid. “She told you, we went to middle school together.”

“Something tells me that isn’t the full story.” 

Clint made a face; now that Steve had decided to be nosy, he was apparently going to play it to the hilt. It wasn't to late to hit him. “What gave it away?”

“She’s acting like you being alive is a pain in her butt, and last I checked; She didn’t treat everyone who went to middle school with her that way. Some yes, but not everyone else. Which means you’re not everyone else, are you Barton?”

A low breath, before his lips quirked up in an approximation of a smile; “I guess I’m not. But I only knew her for a few weeks before I left the school. She was the new girl you see, fresh from Russia with an accent that I didn’t understand half the time. First natural red head I ever met, not ginger, but actual red.” His smile turned nostalgic, once when he'd been feeling poetic, he'd thought of it and compared her to a flame. Warm, entrancing and ready to burn you if you fuck around with her.

Suddenly Steve tensed with realisation, and he said a bit too loudly “You had a crush on her, didn’t you?”

Clint shot him a dirty look before relaxing, which took considerable effort after his previous thoughts. He really should hit Steve now. But he was in a sharing mood. He kept the answer at whisper level, “Yeah, I guess I did. Although if you tell anyone I will firmly deny it.”

“Of course." Steve smiled knowingly, "So what happened?”

Clint had to laugh when Steve’s expression turned hopeful, “She hated me from the get go. And I used all my Barton charm on her, which is considerable, but she still thought I was a, quote, ‘sexist pig’. Like not even kidding, she said that to me in Russian, and I didn’t find out what it meant until ages later. But then... life happened, and I had to leave while she stayed. But it's not like we were on good speaking terms anyway.” He shrugged. You can't miss what you never had, or so the saying went.

Steve sat there quietly for a second and Clint wished he could see inside the boy’s brain to know what was going through it. It was the first time that he’d told anyone the story since... well, in a long time. Admittedly it wasn’t the whole story but he still wanted to know what the other boy thought of it. He didn’t know why this was so important either, since he was going to leave anyway; but for some reason he really cared what Steve Rogers thought of him. So he forced himself to sit patiently and wait.

“Is she why you’re leaving?” Clint was momentarily taken back, he thought they'd gone over this. He didn't expect Steve to whine about it but when he looked up he didn’t see a pouty child. He saw someone who was determined to understand. This obviously meant a lot more to Steve than it did to Clint.

He gave a faint hearted chuckle, “I thought you weren’t going to fight me anymore on this, Rogers.”

“I said I wouldn't fight you once we got back.” Steve didn’t even look slightly ashamed. “But you still didn’t answer my question.”

“No she isn’t.” It wasn’t completely a lie, Clint reasoned so it wasn't a complete betrayal. But Steve's insistence still bugged him. “Why does it matter so much to you if I leave? You’ve only known me for a couple of days, and you’ve already got your friends so I’m not exactly leaving you all alone.”

Steve was silent for a long moment before he spoke, and Clint had been a second away from telling him not to worry about it. Then again fair was fair, and he had answered all of Steve's questions. “Because your my friend and I’ve enjoyed these last few days, even when you didn’t want to talk to me.

"Ever since Phil told me that we were getting a foster kid, I was excited. It felt like I was going to have a brother and I might get a chance to do all those things that brothers do. Like this, helping me with my asthma, is really cool. And I always wanted a brother.”

The last sentence came out so quietly that Clint would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching Steve’s lips. When he did get it he physically reeled from the impact the words had on him. Fuck. Steve certainly wasn’t pulling any punches. What was he meant to say to that? He’d thought he had kept enough distance that Steve and Coulson wouldn’t grow attached. It would hurt less that way when he left. That was the biggest kindness Clint could do for them.

But Steve had grown attached regardless. And he thought of Clint like a brother, for fucks sake. And what had Clint done to deserve that? He’d been about to run away and leave his ‘brother’ behind, just like Barney had. And that brought back memories that Clint did not think about as a rule. But that one thought opened the floodgates he’d built against the feelings of rejection and now it added guilt to the mix.  _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ He closed his eyes as he tried to pull himself back together. _F_ _uck you Barney for fucking ditching me._ He swallowed tightly.  _And fuck you Clint for becoming your brother._ He felt his chest tighten and fought the prickling of tears in his eyes.  _And fuck you too Steve. For making me feel so goddamn guilty._ Slowly he brought his hand up to his mouth under the cover of stifling a yawn, and released the shaky breath that threatened to turn into a sob.

When he opened his eyes Steve was looking at him like Clint was the one having an asthma attack. His wide eyes and worry lines on his forehead showed that he obviously hadn’t expected the reaction to his words.  _I’m not my brother_ , he told himself before he opened his mouth. “I’ll stay.”

Steve looked like he’d had an arrow hit him between the eyes. He blinked a couple times. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve convinced me. I’ll stay, there’s no reason for me not to.” He tried to ignore the voice in his head that nagged him for lying. He did have a reason to leave. But he wasn’t about to tell anyone that. Not even Steve. But he’d let him enjoy his fantasy a little longer at least.

And when Steve broke into a grin so wide he thought his face might split in two, Clint knew it was worth it. He still felt bad but he held it at bay for now. If the best thing he could do while he was here was to make Steve Rogers happy, he’d do it. It wouldn’t last but he’d do it anyway.

With a sigh he stood up, tuning into what Steve was babbling on about. In time to patch together the list of things he'd unknowingly agreed to; “...is great. And you can eat lunch with me and the rest of the group. I promise you they are not so bad usually. I mean Thor can be a little loud and Tony’s an idiot sometimes and Natasha is... well Natasha. But they’re not all that bad if you get to know them.”

“Uh huh. Yeah that’s great Steve, but we should probably head back home. Are you all right to run, or do you need me to carry you?” he said to change the conversation, Steve was way too excited about this. And every second he spoke, the expectations built up on Clint’s shoulders to unbearable heights.

“Please short-stuff, you wouldn’t even be able to lift me.”

Clint gave a crooked smirk, “Right and now you're making short jokes, because you’re a jock. Captain of the jocks even. That's it, I'm calling you 'Captain Jock' from now on. Captain for short."

"That will never stick, Barton."

Clint shrugged, "Still, we better get back. Coulson is probably looking for us.”

“You know you can call him Phil right?”

“Yeah not going to happen.” Clint said as they made their way back down the side walk. He still didn't know what he'd signed up to, but he'd give it a try for Steve's sake. If it went wrong, and he was still sure it will, it wouldn't take long to grab his bag. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, I must say this was a hard chapter to write. I got serious writers block. But luckily the awesome comments I've received from lalaith_paola, amourstiles and ClintandNatasha (very jealous of your username btw) gave me the motivation to finish it. Some very good points were raised in the comment section and I enjoy hearing your feedback to know if I'm going the right direction with my hints and clues. I hope you all enjoy and please feel free to ask any questions.


	6. CHAPTER SIX - Secrets...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I'd do something different and do a Natasha Romanoff only chapter. I don't want to have her left out.

Natasha came to a halt as she stepped into her French class. He was there sitting in the back row by the windows, his shaggy blonde hair messed up like he’d just got out of bed and rolled into his seat. His eye were heavy lidded and a slight steam trail was emerging from a thermos in his hands and he stared at it eerily, like one might gaze into a campfire. She frowned, Barton hadn’t been in this class yesterday morning. And why hadn’t she thought to bring her own coffee, god knows she needed one. She’d had a late night, working a second shift after school and returning home in time for the weekly screaming match.

If he’d noticed her walk in he didn’t react, although he was looking around constantly, his blue pupils sharp and alert despite his sleep weary state. The teacher wouldn’t be here for another five minutes by her reckoning, so she weighed up whether to try and talk to him. But she recalled yesterday vividly and decided it wasn’t in her interest. She was _the_ Natasha Romanoff and she wouldn’t sully her reputation by getting up and talking to a boy she didn’t even like. So she sat and waited until the teacher, Mr. Patten, walked in to start the class.

The middle aged French teacher stopped as soon as he got to his desk, pausing and sniffing the air. He looked around the classroom until his eyes found Barton sitting in the corner, or to be precise, he found the thermos in Barton’s hands. Natasha noticed several other students squirm in their seats; they sensed the trouble brewing as well. Natasha smirked, a pun.

“I smell coffee, class.” The teacher said with a tone that implied they should know what that means. A few nodded in agreement whilst others looked down at their tables, eager to not get called out. Natasha had long since learnt that technique didn't work well. A few other students looked back at Barton to see his reaction; he wasn’t responding at all, physically and verbally he was unfazed. Mr Patten cleared his throat after a moment, “I do not allow hot beverages in my class, young mister.”

He obviously didn't recognise Clint Barton by face, on the second day of school it wasn't too surprising. But Natasha had a feeling that he'd remember Barton after this encounter.

Barton had the nerve to take a sip of his coffee but did not otherwise acknowledge the teacher. Natasha widened her eyes in surprise; Mr Patten was considered one of the more intimidating teachers. Although he was not overly tall at six foot, or significantly broad, he had a habitual bluntness that cowed a lot of students. Not Natasha of course, Natasha wasn’t scared of anyone.

The teacher stomped down the aisles between the desks and came to a halt in front of Clint Barton, his hands resting on his hips. Clint at least finally looked up at the teacher. His eyebrow lifted in a silent expression of ‘can I help you?’

“I said, that you cannot have coffee or any other hot drinks in my class.” The teacher's tone was indignant.

Barton’s hand went up to rub his ear through his hair before he finally spoke, “Sorry I wasn’t listening; what did you say?”

The teacher’s face coloured in the face of such insubordination. Even Natasha wanted to ask what game the blonde was playing. Instead after the lifetime it took for the teacher to calm down, Mr Patten asked, “What is your name?”

Barton raised another eyebrow before blowing at his fringe once, then twice and finally lifted his hand to push it back. The teacher’s eye twitched and Natasha emphasized with him; it was such an annoying habit even if she couldn’t imagine the boy without it.

Not that she imagined him often, of course.

“Barton.” He finally said.

The teacher’s face morphed with recognition, “Of course you are. You missed yesterday’s lesson so you are understandably ignorant of my rules. One of them is that you are not allowed coffee in my class.”

Clint scrunched his face up, but said “Noted.” Then he took another long sip of his coffee.

“I’m going to have to confiscate your thermos.”

The student paused, eyeing the teacher with suspicion. “You want my coffee?”

“No mister Barton. I will not be drinking your coffee.” From Natasha’s experience the teacher would empty it out the window. Clint obviously came to the same conclusion because he scowled.

“What a waste of good coffee.” He said before tipping his head back and draining the scalding liquid in one long swallow. Natasha was impressed, not that she'd ever admit it, it had still been steaming. Then Clint Barton nonchalantly packed his empty thermos into his bag, ignoring the disappointed glare he got from the thirty-something adult.

The teacher cleared his throat, but it was obviously an excuse to take a deep calming breath, and walked back to his desk. “Alright Barton, I'll let you off with a warning this time. Now to start the class, you’ve already wasted five minutes of our precious time as it is. Oh and Barton,” The teacher stopped when he reached the front to look at the young blonde again, “In the future, I’d like you to stay switched on.”

Natasha frowned; it was an odd way to phrase it. It didn’t make sense. Why did Barton get away so lightly, especially after ignoring the teacher the first few times? Usually Mr Patten would have gone ballistic, yelling and sending the student straight to Principal Fury. But then she supposed Clint Barton had always had a knack for getting away with his stunts. He had a light hearted devil-may-care attitude and the dry sense of humour that people found so charming. Most people, Natasha corrected, but definitely not her. She also thought back to how he’d gotten away with antagonising Buck Crisholm all those years ago.

Except he hadn’t gotten away with it in the end, had he. And that sparked a whole new train of curiosity. After she’d gotten over the shock of seeing him again yesterday, she’d been startled to find she was curious about what happened. Sure she’d overheard the story told by orphans in the schoolyard of how Buck Crisholm had finally gotten his hands on the slippery Clint Barton and exacted his revenge. But Natasha found herself wanting to hear it from his lips: for him to fill in the details and tell her why he hadn’t come back until now. Which was ironic because she hadn’t given two shits about it at all until now.

She was tempted to ask him then and there what had happened but the teacher had started lecturing, so she pulled out her book and started taking notes. She discretely glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, watching him; comparing him to the Barton of her past.

He’s not wearing his coat today; in its place was a long sleeved shirt with a target design on the front. His jeans were rolled up at the cuffs, his black Adidas sneakers visibly poking out from them. He was no longer skinny, having a more average body shape than before, but he was still relatively short. His hair was still the same shaggy mess that kissed the midpoint of his neck on the back and sides, and reached out to his eye line in the front. She also noted the tenseness in his shoulders and neck that was there even now when he acted so lazy, it was like he was still coordinating his movements to provide the perfect act of casual indifference. But she might have been wrong, yes she decided. She was imagining it, looking for what she wanted to see; some sort of kindred soul as emotionally fucked up as she had been.

He was still the same boy, he certainly still needed a damn haircut. He was still the same boy she’d hated for two years because he’d left her crying and abused in a school alley way.

It was something she had never told anyone about, luxuriating in the miracle that the two witnesses just up and left. She’d transformed herself afterwards, becoming what Tony politely called a bad ass mother fucker. She smiled at the thought, she intimidated everyone except Pepper Potts and Steve Rogers with her fierceness. Her tendency to break the wrist of anyone who annoyed her only helped. She welcomed the reputation, it was like a shield, an armour, that protected her. No one would try to hurt her because she had the reputation of being too dangerous to touch.

And that was the VIP (Very Important Problem) of the day. It was bad enough he reminded her of that scarring moment from her past, but he would tell others about it too. He had no reason not to tell anyone. And so her reputation would plummet, and she’d return to being Natalia Romanova, the weak little girl who wasn’t as tough as she thought she was.

So she had to convince him to keep it to himself. With any other student, it wouldn’t be too hard, they were all terrified of her. She wasn’t so sure with Barton, he literally held the metaphorical chink in her armour. Maybe she could seduce him, bat her eyelashes and swear him to silence with a kiss, but she wasn't that person. She might flirt, but she didn't give herself up, to anyone. She'd just have to talk to him. 

So when the class ended and he walked out of the door, she followed. _Here goes nothing_. She stepped in alongside him without making any commotion. He noticed though, looking up and raising an eyebrow before looking forward again.

“Natalia.” He said by way of hello. Natasha scowled, it was yet another reminder of who she’d been.

“Natasha.”

“You say Kartoshka, I say potato.” He said.

If she wasn’t trying to get his help she would have slapped him hard in the face. “Damn it Barton, listen. I need to talk to you.” She hissed.

He moved to stand on the side of the hallway, out of the way of foot traffic, and leaned against a locker, one foot hooked behind another. She thought she saw it again, that cold calculation in his movements that screamed that his casual behaviour was all a facade. His voice was rough but he still joked, “We’re talking, aren’t we?”

“You know what I mean.” She grumbled, she was sick of pussyfooting around the issue.

“I thought we weren’t on speaking terms.” The halls were almost empty now and he started to pace, across the hall and back. His hands were stuffed in his pockets and he held a sarcastically innocent expression.

She gritted her teeth against a growl; violence wasn’t going to solve anything with this one. “Don’t be an ass, Clint.”

He stared at her for a long moment before he did that annoying habit. Two blows and then push the hair back. Probably debating whether to keep up the fool act or take this seriously. In the end, he sighed, “What do you want Natalia?”

“I wanted to talk about what happened,” she tried to think of a correct way to say it, how on earth do you bring up something like that? Do you say ‘when I was raped’ or ‘in the alley’. Eventually she settled with a neutral answer “with Buck.”

Suddenly she regretted saying anything at all.

He stopped pacing immediately and stalked over, all traces of joviality gone, and stood right in her face. It had the added consequence of pushing her back into the lockers. His brows furrowed and his mouth set in a rock hard line. That controlled casualness was gone, replaced by an icy fury. His tone was a knife’s edge as he told her in Russian, “ **Nothing happened.** ”

Her mouth parted for a second as she processed the words, did he really mean that. She had to be sure, but in her haste she did not make the transition to Russian; “So you won’t tell anyone about him?”

His fist slammed into the locker in the blink of an eye and Natasha flinched. She couldn't lower her heartbeat enough to tell herself she wasn't scared, that she was the Natasja Romanoff. She could feel the indent of his knuckles in the metal near her right ear. If it hurt, he didn’t feel it. “ **Nothing fucking happened, Natalia Romanova, do you hear me? Nothing.** ”

Then he snapped from his stupor and looked up the corridor to see a few curious faces poking out of classrooms, some of them teachers. He immediately straightened up and shifted his backpack’s strap to sit more comfortably on his shoulders, resuming that casual pretence. “Now I’m going to be late for class.” Was all he said as a goodbye, before he was stomping off down the hall; The last thing she heard him mutter under his breath before he rounded the corner was “I need some fucking coffee.”

 

* * *

 

Natasha sat down at a computer station next to Pepper for the next lesson, glad Clint wasn’t in the IT with her. When she was next to her female friend she leaned back in her office chair, crossing her arms in front of her. She was still unsure of what to make of her previous interaction with the mysterious Clint Barton. It had been quite frankly terrifying, he'd reacted so violently, so spontaniously. She couldn’t get a read on the boy she’d once known.

“What’s wrong Nat?” Pepper said next to her. She’d been to obvious with her annoyance and she fought the urge to scowl at her lack of discipline. Doing so would only make it worse.

“Nothing Pep, I’m fine.” She knew it was a futile attempt. Pepper was one of those people who insisted on being there for her friends. Natasha loved that about her even if it was a pain sometimes. Right now she just needed time to think and brood.

The lighter redhead raised an accusing eyebrow, “You sure it was _nothing_? Doesn’t look like it.” There was a pause before she offered, “I hope you’re not still upset about the new kid.”

“His name is Clint.” Natasha supplied automatically before kicking herself mentally. She was unable to stop the scowl this time. That boy messed with her head, even when he wasn’t there. What was his problem?

“So you are?” Pepper asked smugly, and if she wasn’t Natasha’s only female friend she could have thrown something at her, a computer mouse or a pen. She couldn’t even settle for sticking her tongue out, she was so pissed. But she knew she wasn't pissed at Pepper.

“I saw him just now, in my French class. Something’s up with him.” She grudgingly admitted. Why had he snapped at her like that? It was Natasha who should be feeling angry, Clint Barton was the jerk who'd ditched her, not the other way around.

“Are you sure? It’s not like he was that friendly with anyone to begin with.” Natasha knew what she meant, but somehow that annoyed her too. He was stand offish, but he hadn’t always been like that. He'd once been witty and easygoing, if still a little quiet.

“Yeah I’m sure. We also argued in the hallway.” She supplied, who knew? Maybe Pepper would have the key to understanding the situation.

Pepper’s voice suddenly turned serious and she frowned. Natasha didn’t stop herself from smiling at her friend’s protective nature, she'd throttle Clint Barton now if she had the chance. “About what?”

“I don’t know,” Natasha said because she really didn’t want to bring up the fact that she’d been trying to keep a secret from everyone. But she wasn’t sure that was what had bothered Clint, if anything he was just as eager to keep it a secret. “that’s what I meant when I said I don’t know what’s up with him.”

Pepper turned thoughtful for a second, and the teacher walked in. He was a larger guy with glasses and receding curly hair. It was only once he handed out their assignments for the day that Pepper spoke to her again. “He’s living with Steve right. I have you tried asking him? He might know something you don't.”

Natasha frowned. That was actually a really good idea. She wondered why she hadn’t thought of it. “Actually, I didn’t think of that. Thanks Pep.”

"Anytime." 

Luckily the class room was relatively dark, and she managed to get her phone out without alerting the teacher. She quickly switched it to silent before shooting off a quick text message.

**NR:** Hey Steve, U there?

It wasn’t going to get her an A in English but she figured text messages were a different case. It was less than a minute before he replied.

**SR:** We’re not allowed to use phones in class, Nat.

Natasha couldn’t help but smirk, that was so Steve Rogers. He even used correct spelling and grammar. Cute.

**NR:** Don’t B such a boy scout.

**SR:** I was a boy scout Natasha.

She’d known that, but it was fun to get a rise out of the goody-two-shoes. Now it was back to business.

**NR:** Wimp. I need 2 ask U something.

**SR:** Can this wait?

**NR:** No!

She had to hide her phone under the table when the teacher walked passed. But she was typing again as soon as his back was turned.

**NR:** I want 2 talk bout Clint.

**SR:** What about him? Is he okay?

Of course, she thought, Steve was still playing babysitter. She would have teased him if she wasn’t on a mission.

**NR:** IDK. Do U know who put a stick up his ass?

She expected to receive a text telling her not to be so rude. That was Steve’s usual MO when anyone swore; he was so old fashioned that way.

**SR:** I still don’t know what IDK means.

**NR:** I don’t know.

**SR:** Then why did you say it?

**NR:** No! It means “I don’t know” U idiot.

She really wasn’t surprised, he really was old fashioned. Technology wasn’t his strong point (Tony Stark had to show him how to put his phone on silent) and she should have expected acronyms were in the same boat. There was a reason he was nicknamed 'Grampa' by the rest of the group.

She decided to stop messing with him and get to the point.

**NR:** Has he said anything 2 U?

Suddenly she had a horrifying epiphany, what if Clint had said something to Steve, about her. About Buck Crisholm. She didn’t think he would, especially after his reaction before, but then Natasha had learnt never to assume. Assuming things was stupid and likely to get you hurt when you made really stupid ones. Stupid assumptions like 'it will be safe to walk down a school alley.'

She quickly added.

**NR:** About me?

There was no answer for another minute. It wasn’t odd, he probably had to hide his phone from a teacher as well. What did he even have now? Art? Health 100?

**SR:** No.

Hang on a second. Steve never gave one word replies, even when texting. It was a courtesy thing with him. Natasha’s eyes narrowed at her screen, there was only one time he limited his words.

**NR:** R U lying 2 me Steve?

Another long pause. Natasha didn’t give him the benefit of the doubt this time; he was probably trying to come up with a convincing lie.

**SR:** No?

**NR:** WTF did U seriously just put a ? there?

**NR:** Wat has he told U?! Don’t make me cum find U!

Anyone else and Natasha wouldn't shorten the word come, there was an obvious dirty joke ready to happen. But Steve was too much of a saint to mention it, hell he was probably blushing from reading it. There was another pause and Natasha spent the time planning how to hide Steve's body when she killed him out of frustration. Why did Steve have to be so muscular, he was going to be heavy to drag around. Maybe Pepper would help her, or Thor.

**SR:** It’s not my place to say.

**NR:** OMG I’m going 2 kill U Steve Rogers.

**NR:** TELL ME!!!!

**SR:** It’s nothing bad. He just told me about what happened two years ago.

“Fuck.” She said audibly, and Pepper Potts looked over. Natasha quickly schooled her expression and pretended to work on the assignment. Steve knew, Clint told him. Even after Clint had said not to mention it, he’d told Steve. That son of a bitch.

Fuck, she thought again, she was just repeating the word over and over again now. She didn’t bother texting Steve back. She was going to kill Clint Barton, and then she was going to have to kill Steve Rogers to make sure he didn’t talk. Shame she really liked Steve. Oh well.

She was kidding of course, the most she’d do to Steve is smack him around a bit, but it helped to vent. Although she still wasn’t sure she wouldn’t be killing Barton.

* * *

 

She was reluctant to walk into the cafeteria at lunch, they were all there; even Barton- that motherfucker. But she was walking with Pepper so she couldn’t exactly hang back without looking awkward. Her reputation was no longer rock solid after all. So she marched up and took a seat at the end of the table, next to Thor, glaring at everyone.

She spared a glance at an uncomfortable Steve, before glaring again at the shaggy blonde sitting with his back against the wall, who'd gotten another takeaway coffee from somewhere. He wasn’t even looking at her, although his jaw was clenched tight. He was purposely ignoring her then. That fucker. Natasha pulled out her lunch and was vaguely aware of Tony babbling on.

“...sure you don’t want in. You’d look great in a tux, holding a tray and making martinis. I can even get you a vest.” Tony Stark finished.

Clint narrowed his eyes, “Screw you Stark. I’m not going to be your fucking butler.”

“Clint please,” Steve groaned from his seat, “can you cut back on the swearing?”

Natasha sat up to whisper in Thor’s ear, “What on earth are they going on about?”

Thor finished chewing a mouthful before chuckling, “Anthony is still trying to make the new boy his thrall.”

Thor had a peculiar habit of using Old Icelandic terms in his speech but they’d gotten used to it, he was a nice enough guy after all. His family had moved here six months ago from Norway, and he seemed to have that whole Viking mindset, but then he was a history buff. He even looked like a Viking; tall, blonde, long haired, an impressive stubble at age fifteen, and muscular enough to send all the girls hearts fluttering. A young Curt Cobain, Pepper had called him when he’d been new to the group. If he wasn’t so stupid, Natasha would have fallen for him too.

Not that stupid was the right word for it, oblivious was more apt. He was good with history and the English poetry assignments, but he wasn’t very good at mathematics or science subjects. He was also good at sports, football mainly, so he’d quickly become popular at Stanhurst High School. It was a good thing he was so oblivious though, the amount of cheerleaders that had tried to attract his attention was embarressing

“Really,” Natasha asked, back on topic, “he’s still going on about that shit. Have they talked about anything else?”

“No. As soon as we sat down to feast, Anthony began irritate Barton. Steve is trying to disarm the situation.” At least that meant Steve hadn’t told anyone about what he’d learnt, Natasha told herself. 

Speaking of which, Natasha realised she had to make sure he didn’t spill the beans anymore than Clint already had. It was bad enough he knew, at least she could make sure word didn’t spread. And she didn't know for sure that he hadn't said anything to someone outside of lunch.

She dug out her phone again and quickly typed a message before hitting send.

**NR:** U haven’t told any1 yet, have U?

She heard his phone vibrate, and down the table Steve gave her a startled look before typing as discretely as he could into his phone. It wasn’t that discrete, Clint’s eyes snapped up to look at them suspiciously before he was verbally dragged back into his argument with Tony Stark. It took Steve thirty seconds to type out his message, he seemed to look for the right punctuation.

When she got the reply, her eyes widened in shock. It hadn’t been either of the two answers she was expecting. In fact it was nothing she had expected, and it threw her world a skew. She looked up at Steve, who was watching her nervously; he looked like he suddenly regreted his choice of words. He wasn’t joking. Pepper seemed to sense something going on and gave her a raised eyebrow in question. Natasha was aware of Clint watching her again in her peripheral vision, but she couldn’t stand to look at him right now. She could only look back at her phone to make sure the words were real. They were.

Illuminated in front of her were the words,

**SR:** What! Are you telling me you knew Clint had a crush on you?


End file.
